THE  SILENT  BATTLE 


Books  by 
C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON 

THE  LIGHTNING  CONDUCTOR 
THE  PRINCESS  PASSES 
MY  FRIEND  THE  CHAUFFEUR 
LADY  BETTY  ACROSS  THE  WATER 
ROSEMARY  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  FATHER 
MY  LADY  CINDERELLA 
THE  CAR  OF  DESTINY 
THE  CHAPERON 
THE  PRINCESS  VIRGINIA 
SET  IN  SILVER 
ETC.,  ETC. 


THE 

SILENT    BATTLE 


BY 


MRS.  C.  N.  WILLIAMSON 


NEW  YORK 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1909 


AUTHORIZED   EDITION 
DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &   CO. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  INITIALS 3 

II.    IN  WINIFRED'S  DRESSING-ROOM n 

III.  THE  CHAMPION 15 

IV.  SOMETHING  DAZZLING 23 

V.    A  FOUR-WHEELED  CAB 30 

VI.    THE  GRANTING  OF  A  WISH 41 

VII.    IN  Twos  AND  THREES 49 

VIII.    A  LETTER  FROM  SLOANE  STREET 53 

IX.     "Is  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?" 65 

X.    THE  LETTERS        76 

XL    WINIFRED'S  LUCK 88 

XII.    A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME       , 99 

XIII.  THE  SECRET  OUT in 

XIV.  THE  GREAT  SCENE  —  AND  AFTER 122 

XV.    THE  MASKED  MINSTRELS        134 

XVI.    A  DISCOVERY;  AND  A  PROPOSITION 145 

XVII.    THE  REST  OF  THE  BARGAIN 156 

XVIII.    A  BACKWARD  GLANCE 163 

XIX.  A  LADY  IN  A  VEIL,  AND  A  MAN  IN  A  MASK  .    .    .  169 

XX.     PARTNERS 181 

XXI.    THE  JEWEL  IN  THE  TOAD'S  HEAD       193 

v 


vi  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.  THE  LION'S  DEN       205 

XXIII.  HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK 216 

XXIV.  BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER 228 

XXV.  THE  MOONSTONE  SPHINX 240 

XXVI.  WHAT  THE  LIGHT  SHOWED 251 

XXVII.  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 262 

XXVIII.  THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 273 

XXIX.  THE  WINNING  OF  THE  WAGER 285 

XXX.  THE  PRICE  SHE  WAS  TO  PAY 290 

XXXI.  NERO'S  DINNER  PARTY       297 

XXXII.  THE  EYE  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 305 

XXXIII.  THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS 311 


THE  SILENT  BATTLE 


The  Silent  Battle 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    INITIALS 

IT  was  nearly  half-past  seven,  and  the  actors  and 
actresses  engaged  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  Theater 
had  begun  to  come  in  at  the  stage  door.  Those  who 
played  "character"  parts  and  had  a  "heavy  make-up" 
arrived  first,  some  of  them  looking  into  the  stage- 
doorkeeper's  little  box  of  a  room  to  see  if  there  were 
any  letters  for  them  in  the  rack,  or  else  passing  on 
with  a  nod  and  a  "good  evening"  to  the  doorkeeper 
himself.  Next  came  the  youngest  recruits,  who  had 
been  amateurs  more  lately  than  they  would  have 
liked  to  admit.  They  were  early  because  they  took 
the  labor  of  making  up  very  seriously,  and  were 
longer  about  dressing  than  anybody  else.  But  old 
stagers  or  newly  fledged  "artistes"  all  found  time 
to  throw  a  glance  of  curiosity  at  a  man  who  stood,  in 
the  attitude  of  one  who  waited,  near  the  doorkeeper's 
chair. 

If  the  drama  of  the  Wild  West  had  been  holding 
the  boards  he  might  have  "walked  on"  and  played 
a  part,  dressed  exactly  as  he  was  now;  for  he  wore 
a  wide-brimmed,  soft  felt  hat,  a  flannel  shirt  with 


4  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

a  turnover  collar  that  showed  a  throat  like  a  column 
of  bronze,  and  his  other  clothes  had  certainly  not 
been  made  by  an  English  tailor.  His  dark  hair,  how- 
ever, was  cut  far  too  short  to  carry  out  the  cowboy 
idea,  and  his  face,  aquiline  and  clear-cut  as  a  cameo, 
with  an  eagle  keenness  of  eye,  was  clean-shaven. 

He  saw  that  he  formed  an  object  of  interest  for  the 
actors,  but  it  was  his  metier,  evidently,  to  appear  not 
to  see. 

The  walls  of  the  stage-doorkeeper's  little  room 
were  adorned  with  old  playbills,  old  and  new  por- 
traits of  theatrical  celebrities  —  a  few  in  cheap  frames, 
but  more  cut  from  the  illustrated  papers  —  and  on 
these,  as  the  people  went  through  to  their  dressing- 
rooms,  the  young  man  ostentatiously  fixed  his  eyes. 

"What  time  does  Mr.  Anderson  usually  come 
in?"  he  asked  of  Hansey,  the  doorkeeper,  when  a 
clock  over  the  empty  fireplace  pointed  to  the  quarter 
before  eight. 

"He  ought  to  be  along  in  about  fifteen  minutes 
now,  for  we  ring  up  sharp  at  half-past,"  returned 
Hansey.  "  But  he's  a  quick  dresser,  is  Mr.  Anderson." 

Mr.  Anderson  was  the  manager  of  the  Duke  of 
Clarence's  Theater,  and  the  star  actor  as  well. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Hansey.  Any  letters  for 
me,  I  wonder?"  suddenly  spoke  a  sweet,  bright  voice 
at  the  open  door,  and  a  girl's  head  was  thrust  in  —  a 
pretty  head,  under  a  neat  toque  of  dark  straw. 

Hansey  jumped  up  from  his  chair,  and  hurried 
across  the  room,  hoping  to  have  the  pleasure  of  hand- 
ing the  newcomer's  letters  to  her  before  she  could  get 
them  herself.  But  she  was  too  quick  for  him. 

"Oh,  what  a  lot  there  are  to-night!"  she  exclaimed. 


THE  INITIALS  5 

Then  she  looked  at  the  stranger,  who  had  taken  off 
his  wide-brimmed  hat  in  her  honor  —  a  thing  that 
he  had  failed  to  do  for  the  two  or  three  other  ladies 
who  had  already  passed  in. 

The  look  this  girl  gave  him  was  different  from 
theirs,  and  the  man  felt  the  difference,  though  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  explain.  She  was  saying 
to  herself:  "  I  wonder  who  that  bronze  statue  is  ?  Poor 
fellow,  he's  anxious  or  unhappy  about  something. 
Perhaps  he's  come  to  try  for  an  engagement,  though 
it  would  be  a  funny  hour  for  that.  He  looks  interest- 
ing, and  I'm  sorry  for  him  if  he  wants  something  he 
can't  get." 

With  these  thoughts  in  her  mind  naturally  there 
was  an  expression  of  sympathy  on  her  face;  and  this 
time  the  young  man  did  not  stare  at  the  pictures  on 
the  walls.  Instead  he  glanced  at  the  girl,  and  glanced 
away  again  reluctantly  as  most  men  did  when  their 
eyes  had  drunk  the  fascination  of  hers. 

It  was  a  very  innocent,  youthful  sort  of  fascination, 
not  in  the  least  conscious  or  studied  or  "actressy," 
and  perhaps  in  that  fact  lay  part  of  its  charm,  for  she 
was  different  from  the  others.  One  seemed  to  smell 
wallflowers  and  mignonette  steeped  in  morning  dew, 
and  to  think  of  dawn  in  the  country  as  she  passed  and 
smiled,  actress  though  she  was. 

"Yes,  miss,  a  lot  of  letters,"  Hansey  echoed. 
"They'll  be  'mash'  letters,  miss,  half  of  'em,  I'll 
bet,"  and  he  chuckled,  for  he  was  a  privileged  char- 
acter at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's,  and  took  advantage 
of  his  privileges. 

"How  horrid  of  you  to  say  such  a  thing,"  the 
girl  reproached  him,  and  departed,  closely  fol- 


6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

lowed  by  a  rather  elderly  maid  who  had  remained, 
in  the  background  while  her  mistress  gathered  up 
her  correspondence. 

"Who  is  that  young  lady?"  inquired  the  "bronze 
statue"  when  she  had  disappeared  along  the  passage 
which  led  to  the  stage  and  the  dressing-rooms. 

"That's  Miss  Winifred  Gray,  the  most  popular 
person  in  this  theater,"  answered  Hansey,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  conveying  information  worth  having. 
"Have  you  never  been  in  front,  then?" 

"No,  I'm  a  stranger  in  England,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  I've  never  been  to  any  theater  in  this  country." 

"Then  what  have  you  come  after  Mr.  Anderson 
for?"  was  the  question  on  the  stage-doorkeeper's 
lips,  but  he  did  not  ask  it,  partly  because  the  matter 
was  not  his  business,  and  partly  because  at  that  moment 
Mr.  Anderson  himself  came  into  the  theater. 

He  was  not  visible  yet,  but  a  deep  voice,  trained  to 
the  mellowest  of  accents,  spoke  in  the  passage  just 
outside  Hansey's  room;  and  instantly  Hansey's  face 
changed.  "There's  the  governor  now,"  he  half 
whispered  to  his  companion. 

The  young  man  had  come  in,  saying  that  he  wished 
to  wait  for  Mr.  Anderson,  who  had  asked  him  to  call 
at  the  theater  that  evening,  but  Hansey  —  whilst 
granting  standing  room  in  his  little  box  —  had  hardly 
believed  the  assertion.  He  could  do  no  less  than 
take  the  stranger's  word,  for  if  he  sent  him  away  and 
there  really  had  been  an  appointment,  Mr.  Anderson 
would  be  angry;  and  when  Mr.  Anderson  was  angry 
he  was  very  disagreeable  indeed.  However,  the 
stage-doorkeeper  would  be  surprised  if  the  gentleman 
in  the  flannel  shirt  and  wide-brimmed  hat  were  not 


THE  INITIALS  7 

sent  away  with  a  snub  or  passed  by  without  any 
notice  at  all. 

As  the  actor-manager  slowly  approached  with  some 
friend  he  was  bringing  in,  Hansey  threw  a  sharp, 
sidelong  glance  at  his  companion.  But  the  handsome 
brown  face  showed  no  sign  of  trepidation  at  the  com- 
ing of  the  great  man. 

Evidently  George  Anderson  was  in  a  bad  temper 
to-night.  "Do  look  out  and  not  stumble,  Macaire," 
he  was  saying.  "This  is  the  worst  stage-entrance  in 
London.  Beastly  place!" 

Then  two  men  came  in  sight  of  the  other  two  who 
stood  in  the  doorkeeper's  room.  One  was  exceptionally 
tall,  exceptionally  good-looking,  with  wavy  brown 
hair,  worn  rather  long,  dreamy  dark  eyes  (they  kept 
their  dreaminess  even  in  bad  humor),  and  a  Greek 
profile,  unspoiled  by  beard  or  mustache.  The  second 
was  so  hideous  that  the  stranger  had  to  repress  an 
exclamation  of  horror  as  his  eyes  first  fell  upon  him. 

He  was  short  and  stoutly  built,  and  walked  with 
a  limp.  There  was  something  about  his  figure,  too, 
which  vaguely  suggested  deformity,  though  —  per- 
haps because  a  clever  tailor  helped  him  keep  the 
secret  —  it  was  impossible  to  fasten  upon  the  exact 
cause  of  the  startling  impression. 

But  it  was  his  face  which  sent  a  creeping  chill 
through  the  veins  of  the  man  or  woman  who  saw  it 
for  the  first  time,  and  drove  children  who  looked  at 
it  shrieking  to  their  mothers. 

Some  horrible  accident  must  have  happened  to 
spoil  the  face  in  the  past,  and  what  it  might  have  been 
before  that  time  was  impossible  to  guess.  For  all 
that  one  could  tell  it  might  have  been  the  most  perfect 


8  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

face  ever  made;  but  it  was  now  the  most  grotesque 
since  Caliban's. 

The  accident  which  wrought  such  havoc  had 
destroyed  the  skin  from  chin  to  forehead,  leaving  a 
deep,  purplish  redness,  a  peculiar  glaze  which  gave 
the  appearance  of  a  thin  coat  of  varnish  over  raw 
flesh.  No  hair  was  left  in  the  eyebrows,  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  prominent,  and  one  of  the  eyes 
had  been  injured,  having  a  queer,  ragged  lower  lid, 
while  the  upper  lid  drooped,  thus  giving  its  fellow  a 
peculiar  staring  effect.  The  eyes  were  yellowish  in 
color,  very  light,  appearing  lighter  than  they  were  in 
contrast  to  the  dull  red  of  the  face  with  its  marred 
and  shapeless  features. 

"  I  thought  you  were  goin'  to  speak  to  Mr.  Anderson," 
said  the  doorkeeper,  not  without  sarcasm,  when  both 
gentlemen  had  passed  on,  followed  by  the  actor- 
manager's  valet.  "  But  you  never  made  a  move." 

"It  was  the  other  man,"  answered  the  stranger. 
"His  awful  face  took  my  wits  away  for  a  minute.  I 
must  ask  you  to  send  my  name  to  Mr.  Anderson 
instead." 

"You  may  well  say  an  aw^ful  face,"  Hansey  rejoined, 
ignoring  the  request  in  his  new  interest,  "and  yet 
there  ain't  many  women  in  England  wouldn't  be 
willin'  to  have  it  for  their  husband's  face.  That's  as 
rich  a  man  as  there  is  in  London.  Where  others  have 
thousands,  he's  got  millions.  His  name's  Macaire 
-Lionel  Macaire;  but  he's  called  another  name 
behind  his  back  —  whether  he  knows  it  or  not,  'Nero 
the  Second.'  He's  struck  up  a  friendship  with  the 
governor  just  lately  and  comes  behind  with  him  once 
in  a  while." 


THE  INITIALS  9 

"He  looks  a  monster,"  said  the  aquiline-faced 
stranger. 

"So  he  does.  And  there's  those  who  say  he's  as 
bad  as  he  looks  —  as  bad  as  his  nickname,  though  it 
ain't  only  his  evil  ways  have  earned  him  that,  I  believe, 
but  something  else.  If  he's  got  enemies,  though,  he's 
got  friends  as  well  —  heaps  of  'em." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  be  one  of  them," 
said  the  young  man;  for  he  had  no  inkling  of  the 
surprises  which  Fate  had  hidden  in  her  sleeve.  "But 
look  here,  will  you  take  or  send  my  name  to  Mr. 
Anderson  ?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  use  doing  that  till  Mr.  Macaire's 
gone  out  again,"  pronounced  Hansey,  "  for  the  governor 
never  sees  anyone,  no  matter  how  important,  when 
Mr.  Macaire's  with  him  —  I  know  that.  Or  perhaps 
Mr.  Macaire  may  go  in  front,  in  which  case  he  won't 
pass  this  way.  When  the  curtain's  rung  up  and  the 
governor's  on  the  stage  I'll  find  out  for  you.  Mr. 
Anderson's  first  scene  isn't  a  long  one,  and  he  hasn't 
to  change  between  that  and  the  next.  He  often  sees 
people  then." 

"Nevertheless  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  if 
you'd  send  the  card  now,"  said  the  other.  He  had 
an  agreeable  voice  —  the  voice  of  a  gentleman  —  but 
it  was  not  the  voice  of  an  English  gentleman.  Neither 
was  it  like  that  of  any  American  whom  Hansey  had 
ever  heard  speak;  and  the  doorkeeper's  curiosity 
grew  as  the  persistency  and  the  personality  of  the 
stranger  impressed  themselves  upon  him.  Who  could 
this  queer  fellow  be  who  dressed  like  a  cowboy,  had 
never  been  inside  an  English  theater,  who  let  the 
"governor"  go  by  without  an  attempt  to  catch  him, 


io  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

yet  who  appeared  so  calmly  confident  of  the  effect 
which  his  name  scrawled  on  a  card  would  create  ? 

Shrugging  his  shoulders  in  his  conviction  that  Mr. 
Anderson  would  not  let  himself  be  bothered  by  this 
unknown  person,  Hansey  nevertheless  went  off  him- 
self with  the  card.  The  passage  was  dimly  lighted; 
but  when  he  had  picked  his  way  across  the  stage, 
through  a  confusion  of  scenery  that  was  being  set  and 
carpets  that  were  being  rolled  down  by  silent  men  in 
list  slippers,  he  came  out  into  a  more  brilliant  region. 
There,  before  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  actor- 
manager's  outer  room,  Hansey  held  the  card  near  his 
eyes,  and  read  what  its  sender  had  written.  "Hope 
Newcome,  introduced  by  F.  E.  Z.,"  was  scrawled 
upon  it  in  pencil. 

Hansey,  little  wiser  than  before,  tapped  on  the 
panel.  The  door  was  flung  open  after  an  instant's 
delay,  the  figure  of  Mr.  Anderson's  valet  blocking  up 
the  aperture.  The  card  was  received,  and  carried 
through  the  anteroom  to  the  drawing-room,  while 
the  stage-doorkeeper  waited  outside  for  his  answer. 

George  Anderson  took  the  piece  of  pasteboard 
somewhat  impatiently  from  the  hand  of  his  servant, 
and  read  the  name  and  initials  which  followed,  aloud. 
But  as  he  reached  the  initials  his  voice  changed.  "  By 
Jove  -  -'F.  E.  Z.!'  '  he  exclaimed,  and  turned  impul- 
sively to  his  friend,  who  sat  on  a  sofa  looking  quietly 
on  at  the  process  of  making-up. 

Never  before  had  Anderson  seen  Lionel  Macaire's 
face  pale,  but  to  his  surprise  the  purplish  flush  had 
partly  faded  away.  The  man  looked  ghastly. 


CHAPTER  II 
IN  WINIFRED'S  DRESSING-ROOM 

MR.  ANDERSON  and  the  leading  lady  both  dressed 
near  the  stage;  but  Winifred  Gray  was  not  the  lead- 
ing lady,  and  she  and  her  maid  Jameson  had  to  go 
up  a  short  flight  of  stairs. 

Jameson  opened  the  door,  and  turned  on  the  elec- 
tric light,  while  her  mistress  followed  slowly,  with  a 
friendly  glance  round  the  little  room,  as  if  she  loved  it. 

And  she  did  love  it,  dearly.  It  was  still  new  to  her 
to  be  acting  in  a  great  London  theater,  and  every 
night  when  she  came  to  her  dressing-room  she  felt 
the  same  thrill  of  excitement  that  had  tingled  through 
her  nerves  when  she  first  took  possession. 

She  had  a  good  salary,  but  there  were  many  uses 
for  it,  and  she  had  not  much  money  to  spend  on  beauti- 
fying her  dressing-room  with  exquisite  rugs  and  cur- 
tains and  hangings  as  Mrs.  Peter  Carlton,  the  leading 
lady,  did.  Still,  she  had  made  it  look  very  cozy,  and 
in  her  eyes  it  was  perfect. 

A  small  basket  lounge,  with  two  or  three  ruffly  silk 
cushions,  stood  against  the  rose-"  distempered "  wall. 
Here  Winifred  sometimes  lay  down  to  rest  between 
the  matinee  and  an  evening  performance,  having  her 
dinner  sent  in  from  a  restaurant  near  by,  if  the  weather 
were  bad  and  she  did  not  care  to  go  out.  Above  the 
lounge  was  a  shelf  with  some  of  Winifred's  favorite 


12  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

books,  and  there  were  a  few  framed  photographs 
and  a  water-color  painting  or  two  by  an  admirer 
who  was  a  "coming  artist."  In  one  corner  stood 
a  long  Psyche  mirror,  provided  by  the  "  management," 
and  another  large  mirror  was  tilted  over  the  dressing- 
table  which  held  materials  for  making  up. 

One  side  of  the  wall  was  covered  with  a  great  sheet, 
under  which  hung  the  various  dresses  which  Winifred 
wore  in  the  play,  and  another  sheet  was  suspended 
underneath  the  frocks  to  keep  them  from  contact  with 
the  wall.  The  upper  sheet  Jameson  removed  from 
the  hooks  to  which  it  was  fastened  by  rings,  and  from 
the  collection  of  pretty  garments  it  had  protected  took 
a  Japanese  dressing-gown  which  she  laid  over  the 
back  of  a  chair  in  front  of  the  table. 

It  was  early  still,  and  Winifred  curled  up  on  the 
lounge  to  look  through  her  letters,  slowly  drawing 
out  hairpins  and  pulling  off  gloves  as  she  read,  while 
Jameson  moved  about  the  room  preparing  for  the  busi- 
ness of  the  evening.  She  folded  up  the  big  clean 
towel  which  had  covered  the  neatly  arranged  make-up 
things  on  the  table,  laid  out  other  towels  on  the  station- 
ary washhand-stand,  and  lit  the  gas-jet  surrounded 
by  a  wire  cage,  which  was  needed,  despite  the  electric 
lighting,  for  heating  the  dark  blue  grease-paint  which 
Winifred  used  on  her  eyelashes  for  stage  effect. 

Meantime  the  girl  was  laughing  over  her  letters. 
The  doorkeeper's  vulgarly-worded  prophecy  had 
proved  correct,  for  her  budget  largely  consisted  of 
declarations  of  admiration  from  silly  youths,  whose 
names  she  had  never  heard,  and  appeals  for  her  por- 
trait or  autograph  from  girls  who  thought  it  must  be 
"simply  too  lovely  to  be  on  the  stage." 


IN  WINIFRED'S  DRESSING-ROOM       13 

Presently  all  were  finished  and  tossed  aside,  and 
Winifred  gave  herself  to  the  hands  of  lameson,  who 

O  J  7 

had  the  neat  little  tailor-made  frock  off  and  the  Japan- 
ese dressing-gown  on  in  a  twinkling.  The  pretty  blue 
enamel  watch  was  pinned  on  the  window  curtain, 
where  Winifred  could  glance  at  it  as  she  sat  at  the 
table  to  make  up;  and  then  down  came  the  great 
coils  of  wavy  yellow-brown  hair,  which  the  maid 
would  arrange  for  the  part  her  mistress  played  in  the 
style  of  1830. 

Winifred  would  be  quite  beautiful  by-and-bye, 
when,  powdered  and  delicately  painted,  her  lips 
pointed  into  a  red  Cupid's  bow,  her  long  dark  lashes 
and  the  penciled  arch  of  her  brows  accentuated,  her 
charming  figure  set  off  by  a  quaint  gown  of  pink  and 
green  brocade,  she  made  her  first  appearance  of  the 
evening.  But  she  was  far  more  bewitching  now  as 
she  sat  before  the  glass  with  her  lovely  hair  gleaming 
and  curling  round  her  girlish  shoulders,  her  white 
neck  half  exposed,  and  the  roses  and  cream  of  her 
own  charming,  faintly  sunburnt  complexion  untouched 
by  stage  make-up. 

Perhaps  some  childish  stirring  of  vanity  had  been 
roused  by  the  adoring  letters;  at  all  events,  as  she 
looked  in  the  mirror,  before  dipping  her  fingers  into 
the  pot  of  cold  cream,  which  smelt  like  violets,  she 
told  herself  that  she  really  was  a  very,  very  pretty 
girl,  and  she  wondered  if  it  had  been  only  for  her 
face,  or  because  he  believed  she  could  act,  that  Mr. 
Anderson  had  summoned  her  to  London,  and  his 
theater,  from  the  provincial  Shakespearean  touring 
company  in  which  she  had  made  her  debut. 

"  I  do  hope  it  was  because  I  could  act,"  she  thought, 


i4  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"for  anyone  can  be  pretty."  Then  down  went  her 
ringers  into  the  cold  cream,  and  in  another  second  it 
would  have  been  on  her  face  had  not  her  bedaubed 
hand  been  arrested  by  a  sharp  tap  at  the  door. 

Jameson  answered  the  knock  at  once,  and  Winifred 
heard  the  voice  of  the  "governor's"  valet.  "Mr. 
Anderson's  compliments,  and  will  Miss  Gray  go  as 
soon  as  she  is  dressed  to  the  boudoir  ?  It  is  something 
important." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    CHAMPION 

"F.  E.  Z.!"  repeated  George  Anderson.  "What 
memories  those  initials  bring  back  to  me!  When  I 
hear  them  —  when  I  see  them,  I  am  a  boy  again.  I 
suppose,  Macaire,  as  you  have  lived  so  much  of  your 
life  out  of  England,  they  suggest  nothing  to  you  ?" 

He  asked  this  question  with  his  dreamy  eyes  fixed 
on  his  friend's  face,  for  he  was  still  wondering  at  the 
sudden  ashy  pallor  which  had  overspread  it,  and  ask- 
ing himself  if  it  could  possibly  have  a  connection  with 
the  initials  that  had  caused  his  own  emotion. 

Lionel  Macaire  sat  forward  with  elbows  on  knees, 
and  hands  hanging  listlessly;  but  a  slight  quiver  went 
through  the  gloved  fingers,  though  his  marred  features 
remained  passive.  "I  once  knew  an  actress  who 
made  those  initials  rather  celebrated,"  he  answered 
in  the  thick,  yet  harsh  voice  which  sounded  as  if  he 
had  some  chronic  affection  of  the  throat.  "It  was  a 
long  time  ago." 

"For  my  sake,  don't  count  the  years,"  laughed 
Anderson,  who  was  nearly  fifty  and  looked  thirty- 
three  at  most.  He  turned  to  his  valet.  "Send  word 
to  Mr.  Newcome  that  I'll  see  him  - 

"One  minute!"  interrupted  the  millionaire.  "Does 
this  Mr.  Newcome  come  from  —  the  lady  with  those 
initials  ? " 

15 


1 6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"That's  what  I  want  to  find  out,"  Anderson  replied. 
"I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning  saying  that  she 
had  recommended  him  to  see  me  when  he  came  to 
England  —  he  didn't  mention  from  where  —  and  ask- 
ing for  an  appointment.  I  was  in  a  great  hurry  — 
just  had  time  to  meet  you  for  our  business  talk  —  and 
I  sent  a  verbal  message  by  the  boy  who  brought  the 
note  telling  Newcome  to  call  to-night  about  half-past 
seven.  Then  our  conversation  of  to-day  and  every- 
thing connected  with  it  put  the  man's  existence  out  of 
my  head,  though  I  was  really  curious  to  see  and  question 
him,  or  I  wouldn't  have  said  he  might  come." 

"  Don't  you  think  he'd  prefer  to  talk  with  you  alone  ?" 
asked  Macaire. 

"I  don't  see  why  he  should.  He  probably  wants 
an  engagement  —  it  can't  be  anything  more  private 
than  that.  If  you  ever  knew  her  you  must  have 
wondered  over  the  mystery  of  her  disappearance,  as  we 
all  did;  and  now  that  there  seems  a  chance  of  its  being 
cleared  up,  wouldn't  you  like  to  be  on  the  spot " 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  what  I  might  like  or  dislike," 
broke  in  the  millionaire.  "I  think  it  would  be  rather 
hard  on  the  young  man.  I'll  be  gone  in  a  few  minutes 
if  Miss  Gray 

"All  right,  old  man;  it's  very  considerate  of  you. 
Wallis"  — to  his  valet  —  "say  that  I'll  see  Mr.  New- 
come  during  my  first  wait.  Let  him  be  brought  to 
me  at  ten  minutes  to  nine,  precisely." 

"In  the  boudoir,  or  here,  sir?" 

Mr.  Anderson  frowned  slightly.  The  boudoir  was 
an  exceedingly  pretty  room  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stage,  fitted  up  luxuriously  by  him  for  his  own  use 
in  receiving  certain  favored  friends.  It  was  par- 


THE  CHAMPION  17 

ticularly  engaged  for  the  early  part  of  this  evening,  and 
a  great  deal  hung  upon  the  scene  which  would  take 
place  there.  "  I  will  see  the  gentleman  here/'  returned 
the  actor-manager. 

The  faithful  and  discreet  Wallis  went  out  into  the 
ante-room  to  pass  on  the  information  to  Hansey,  who 
stood  patiently  waiting  outside  the  door.  As  soon  as 
his  back  was  turned  Lionel  Macaire  spoke  again,  in 
a  lowered  voice. 

"If  this  young  man  asks  you  for  an  engagement, 
don't  give  him  one.  I'll  explain  why  afterwards  — 
when  you've  told  me  what  he  has  to  say  about  the 
lady." 

"It  will  be  rather  hard  to  refuse  a  favor  to  an 
applicant  sent  by  her,"  murmured  Anderson  regret- 
fully. But  there  was  no  rebellion  in  his  mind.  On 
this  night,  and  in  this  theater,  Lionel  Macaire's  wishes 
must  be  law;  he  only  hoped  that  a  certain  person 
whom  his  thoughts  named  would  see  this  necessity, 
this  duty,  as  clearly  as  he  did. 

"You  can  keep  his  address,  and  hint  at  something 
for  him  later  on,  perhaps,"  suggested  the  millionaire. 
"Have  you  sent  word  to  Miss  Gray  yet  that  she  will 
be  wanted  ? " 

"No.  There's  been  no  time.  But  Wallis  shall 
go  at  once." 

"  It  will  be  better  to  let  the  message  come  from  you, 
and  keep  me  out  of  it." 

"Oh,  certainly.     I  quite  understand." 

By  this  time  Wallis  had  come  back  again. 

"Just  put  me  into  these  riding-boots,"  commanded 
his  master,  "and  then  take  a  message  from  me  to 
Miss  Gray's  dressing-room.  She's  wanted  on  a 


i8  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

matter  ot  great  importance  in  the  boudoir  at  the  end 
of  the  first  act." 

But  Mr.  Macaire,  though  he  had  caused  Mr.  Ander- 
son's unknown  visitor  to  be  delayed,  did  not  intend 
to  take  up  any  more  of  Mr.  Anderson's  time  for  the 
present.  He  rose  and  limped  to  the  portiere  which 
divided  the  dressing-room  from  the  ante-room.  His 
left  foot  was  an  artificial  one,  and  though  he  never 
helped  himself  even  with  a  stick,  and  very  few  people 
knew  the  cause  of  his  lameness  he  had  a  peculiar 
hobbling  walk  which  added  to  the  grotesqueness 
of  his  appearance. 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  stroll  out  in  front  till  the  first 
act's  off,"  he  remarked.  "See  you  later.  Ta-ta!" 

And  so  he  was  off.  He  had  stopped  just  long  enough 
to  prevent  the  young  man  waiting  in  the  doorkeeper's 
room  from  seeing  the  "governor"  before  the  curtain 
went  up,  for  already  the  orchestra  was  "rung  in,"  and 
Mr.  Anderson's  first  entrance  as  the  hero  was  "worked 
up  to"  a  few  moments  after  the  beginning  of  the  act. 

Anderson  had  many  things  to  worry  about  that 
night,  but  despite  the  crowding  anxieties  he  thought 
a  great  deal  about  "F.  E.  Z.,"  and  wondered,  not  so 
much  what  sort  of  man  she  had  sent  him,  as  what 
that  man  would  have  to  tell  about  her.  He  generally 
spent  his  "wait"  during  the  first  act  either  in  the 
green-room  or  the  boudoir,  but  this  evening  he  did 
not  delay  a  moment  in  getting  back  to  his  dressing- 
room.  He  had  left  word  that  Mr.  Hope  Newcome 
should  be  there  at  precisely  ten  minutes  to  nine,  and 
as  it  was  now  almost  on  the  hour  the  young  man  was 
already  in  the  ante-room,  observed  somewhat  sus- 
piciously by  Wallis,  when  the  actor-manager  arrived. 


For  the  fraction  of  a  second  the  two  men  looked  at 
each  other  without  speaking.  "An  extraordinarily 
handsome  fellow,  but  where  on  earth  did  he  spring 
from  with  that  get-up?"  Anderson  was  saying  to 
himself. 

"He's  as  attractive  as  she  said,"  the  younger  man 
was  thinking. 

Then  the  manager  smiled  agreeably  and  held  out 
his  hand,  for  he  wished  to  be  conciliatory.  "Mr. 
Newcome,"  he  said,  in  his  deep,  rich  voice,  "you 
have  been  sent  to  me  by  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world.  Tell  me  of  her." 

"She  is  no  longer  in  this  world,"  answered  the 
other,  a  shadow  passing  over  his  face. 

"Dead!" 

"Dead  only  four  months  ago." 

"But  I  understood  —  she  sent  you  to  me  ?" 

"She  advised  me  before  she  died  to  try  and  see  you 
if  I  ever  went  to  England.  I  started  as  soon  as  possible 
after  —  her  death." 

"Ah!  But  she  —  why,  she  gave  me  my  first  engage- 
ment. I  was  only  seventeen  years  old.  When  I 
recall  her  glorious  face,  it  seems  yesterday." 

"  She  told  me.     It  is  thirty  years  ago." 

George  Anderson's  dreamy  eyes  darkened,  as  they 
did  when  he  was  annoyed.  He  did  not  like  being 
reminded  of  his  age,  especially  when  he  was  floating 
in  romantic  visions. 

"You  have  not  told  me  what  she  was  to  you?" 
he  said  in  a  changed  tone. 

"  She  was  —  a  dear  friend  of  my  father's,  and  — 
through  him,  of  mine." 

"England   and  the  English  stage  have  been  the 


20  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

poorer  without  her  for  —  as  you  remind  me  —  a  good 
many  years.  I  hope  she  spent  them  happily?" 

"Only  in  some  ways,  I  am  afraid.  She  was  very 
poor  and  —  she  died  almost  in  want.  Still,  she  was 
loved.  That  is  something  —  to  be  loved." 

"  It  could  not  have  been  otherwise  with  her.  There 
were  many  here  who  would  have  been  only  too  glad 
to  help  her  had  they  known.  But  her  disappearance 
was  a  mystery  which  was  never  cleared  up.  I  was 
hoping  you  might  throw  some  light  upon  it." 

"I  know  nothing  of  that,"  said  the  younger  man, 
turning  away  his  face,  so  that  George  Anderson  could 
see  the  strong,  aquiline  profile.  "She  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  you,  though,  in  case  I  should  ever  meet  you. 
It  was  her  'kindest  remembrance';  and  she  thought 
of  the  past  with  which  you  were  connected,  very  often, 
with  great  pleasure.  She  hoped  you,  too,  sometimes 
recalled  it." 

"No  one  could  ever  forget  her  who  had  seen  her 
even  once!"  exclaimed  the  actor  with  genuine  emo- 
tion. "  She  —  er  —  thought  I  might  be  of  use  to  you, 
as  her  friend  ? " 

"She  knew  I  would  need  friends,"  the  other  amended. 
"And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Anderson,  I  have  come 
to-night  to  ask  if  you  will  give  me  an  engagement  when 
you  put  on  As  Ton  Like  It,  as  I  hear  you  intend  to  do 
very  soon." 

"  I'm  exceedingly  sorry,  but  my  cast  is  all  made 
up,"  the  manager  replied. 

"  I  read  in  the  paper  yesterday  that  the  man  you  were 
to  have  had  for  the  wrestler  had  disappointed  you." 

"That's  true  —  though  it  was  in  the  paper!  —  but 
I  must  have  the  real  thing,  you  know " 


THE  CHAMPION  21 

"I  think  I  may  call  myself  the  real  thing.  I  was 
champion  of  the  amateurs  in  America." 

"Indeed!"  Anderson's  eyes  travelled  from  the 
handsome,  dark  face  over  the  shapely,  vigorous  body 
in  the  queer  clothes. 

"  Then  you  are  an  American  ?  I  didn't  —  pardon 
me  —  recognize  the  accent.  From  what  part  of  the 
States  do  you  come  ?  I  know  them  a  little." 

The  young  man  dropped  his  eyes.  "I  have  lived 
in  many  parts  of  America,"  he  said. 

"And  you  came  to  England  because  —  but  no,  of 
course  you  did  not  come  here  merely  with  an  eye  to 
finding  such  an  engagement  as  this?" 

Hope  Newcome  looked  straight  into  the  actor's 
inquiring  eyes  with  rather  a  strange  and  baffling 
expression.  "I  came  to  find  something,"  he  replied. 
And  perhaps  Anderson  was  mistaken  in  fancying  that 
the  words  really  meant  more  than  they  seemed  to 
mean. 

"I'm  extremely  sorry,"  said  the  actor,  "but  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  you  will  see  for  yourself  that 
it's  impossible  for  me  to  give  you  an  engagement 
as  the  wrestler,  much  as  I  should  like  to  please  you 
for  the  sake  of  one  who  is  gone.  You  are  a  tall  man, 
but  you  are  not  so  tall  as  I  by  an  inch  or  two,  and, 
besides,  as  fits  the  difference  in  our  years,  I  am  of 
stouter  build  than  you.  Orlando  would  get  little 
sympathy  from  the  audience  out  of  a  match  with  a 
wrestler  smaller  than  himself.  I  must  remember 
the  interests  of  the  play;  and  it  would  never  do;  don't 
you  see  that  ? " 

"Perhaps,"  admitted  Hope  Newcome.  "I  had 
not  thought  of  that  point  of  view.  At  all  events, 


22  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

thank  you  for  seeing  me.  I'm  afraid  I've  taken  up 
a  good  deal  of  your  time." 

"Lord  Arthur,  pie  —  ase!"  shouted  the  call-boy, 
outside  the  half-open  door  of  the  ante-room. 

"Lord  Arthur"  was  the  name  of  the  character 
played  by  Mr.  Anderson;  and  this  call  told  him  that 
in  five  minutes  at  latest  he  must  be  at  his  entrance 
to  take  up  his  cue. 

"Not  at  all  too  much  time,"  hepolitely  answered 
his  guest.  "But  I'm  called.  Is  there  something  else 
I  could  do  for  you  ? " 

His  eyes  added,  "If  you  are  hard  up,  I  might  be 
equal  to  a  few  pounds";  and  Newcome  read  the  eyes, 
and  flushed.  "Nothing  else,  thank  you,"  he  said 
hastily.  "Good-night." 

"If  you'll  leave  your  address  with  me,  something 
might  turn  up,"  the  actor  went  on,  not  forgetful  of 
Lionel  Macaire's  instructions.  But  he  had  spoken 
too  late.  Already  the  young  man  sent  him  by  "F. 
E.  Z."  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOMETHING   DAZZLING 

WINIFRED  was  rather  awe-struck  by  the  man- 
agerial command  to  proceed  to  the  boudoir.  She 
had  been  in  Mr.  Anderson's  company  since  March, 
when  they  had  put  on  the  new  play,  the  run  of  which 
would  soon  be  over;  and  it  was  now  close  upon  October. 
She  knew  that  she  was  popular  in  the  company  (al- 
though she  had  made  a  phenomenal  hit  in  the  part 
for  which  she  had  been  specially  engaged),  and  she 
thought  that  Mr.  Anderson  liked  her  personally,  but 
she  had  never  so  much  as  been  inside  the  boudoir. 
She  had  passed  by,  and  glanced  in;  but  the  boudoir 
was  usually  sacred  to  the  entertainment  of  Royal- 
ties or  other  important  personages  who  "came  behind" 
during  a  performance  to  see  Mr.  Anderson.  Wini- 
fred was  afraid  that  she  must  inadvertently  have 
done  something  wrong,  and  that  she  was  to  be  scolded 
by  the  "governor,"  who  could  say  very  nasty  things 
when  he  chose  (so  she  had  heard)  despite  his  delight- 
ful voice  and  dreamy  eyes. 

She  wore  the  same  dress  in  the  second  act  as  in  the 
first,  therefore  when  the  curtain  had  gone  down  she 
had  nothing  to  do  until  her  next  entrance,  which  fact 
no  doubt  Mr.  Anderson  had  remembered  in  sending 
for  her  at  that  time.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast  as 
she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  boudoir. 

23 


24  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Instantly  it  was  opened  by  Mr.  Lionel  Macaire, 
and  though  Winifred  glanced  quickly  about  the  rose, 
white,  and  gold  interior  she  did  not  see  anyone  else. 

"How  are  you  this  evening,  Miss  Gray?"  said 
the  millionaire.  "I've  just  this  minute  come  round 
from  the  front.  I  sat  in  the  Royal  box  watching  your 
big  scene.  It  never  went  better  —  which  is  saying  a 
great  deal.  Why  do  you  stand  outside  the  door  ? 
Aren't  you  coming  in  ?" 

"Mr.  Anderson  sent  for  me,"  explained  Winifred, 
still  lingering  on  the  threshold.  "I  thought  he  would 
be  here  —  but  perhaps  he's  been  detained,  or  has 
forgotten." 

"He  hasn't  forgotten,  I  know,  for  I  heard  him 
mention  the  appointment,"  answered  Macaire.  "But 
the  fact  is,  he  asked  me  to  speak  to  you.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind  ?" 

"Oh  —  no;  of  course  not,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  puz- 
zled way.  She  walked  slowly  into  the  pretty  room, 
her  quaint  brocade  rustling.  She  knew  that  Mr. 
Macaire  had  been  coming  to  the  theater  a  good  deal 
lately,  and  for  the  last  few  weeks  he  had  often  stood 
chatting  with  her  outside  an  entrance  where  she  was 
obliged  to  wait  for  nearly  ten  minutes  in  the  third 
act  —  a  privilege  which  the  stage  manager  would  not 
have  granted  to  anyone  save  an  intimate  friend  of 
Mr.  Anderson.  "He  has  seen  some  fault  in  my  act- 
ing," she  said  to  herself,  "and  has  been  speaking  to 
Mr.  Anderson  about  it." 

"You've  plenty  of  time  for  a  little  talk  now,  haven't 
you?"  asked  the  millionaire,  bringing  forward  the 
most  important-looking  chair  for  the  girl. 

"I've    five-and-twenty    minutes    before    my    next 


SOMETHING  DAZZLING  25 

entrance  in  the  second  act,"  she  replied  before  she 
stopped  to  think,  and  then  was  sorry  that  she  had 
spoken.  Mr.  Macaire  might  fancy  that  she  wanted 
to  spend  the  whole  five-and-twenty  minutes  in  talking 
to  him,  which  she  did  not  at  all.  She  had  noticed 
that  the  leading  lady  and  two  or  three  others  rather 
toadied  to  the  rich,  hideous  man,  but  that  made  her 
all  the  more  anxious  not  to  do  so.  There  was  no 
real  reason  for  disliking  him,  as  he  had  invariably 
almost  gone  out  of  his  way  to  be  nice  to  her  since  she 
had  first  met  him  at  the  theater;  yet  his  reputation 
was  against  him,  and  he  was  so  ugly  that  she  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  him,  and  was  uneasy  in  his  pres- 
ence. She  was  even  a  little  afraid  of  him,  though  she 
did  not  know  why. 

As  she  replied  to  him,  Macaire  touched  the  bell 
and  spoke  for  a  moment  to  the  person  who  answered. 

"You  seem  to  think  twenty-five  minutes  a  long 
time,"  he  went  on,  turning  again  to  her.  "But  it 
won't  be  half  long  enough  for  me  —  I  have  so  many 
things  to  say  to  you.  Have  you  heard  any  gossip, 
Miss  Gray,  about  my  connection  with  this  theater  ? " 

"No,"  returned  Winifred,  showing  her  surprise. 
"  I  didn't  know  you  were  connected  with  it.  I  thought 
—  you  were  just  a  friend  of  Mr.  Anderson's." 

"You  thought  I  came  here  three  or  four  times  a 
week  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  ? " 

Winifred  smiled  —  and  when  she  smiled,  showing 
a  deep  dimple  in  either  cheek,  she  was  divinely  sweet. 
"I  hadn't  thought  much  about  it,"  she  said.  "It 
wasn't  my  business,  you  know." 

"You  mean  you  didn't  know  it  was  your  business. 
But " 


26  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  and  Macaire,  who 
had  continued  to  stand  near  by,  opened  it.  A  man 
appeared  carrying  a  silver  tray  with  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne and  two  glasses.  There  was  also  a  tiny  silver 
and  porcelain  chocolate  pot  and  a  little  Sevres  cup. 

The  tray,  at  a  gesture  from  Macaire,  was  placed 
on  a  small  table,  and  as  soon  as  the  door  had  softly 
closed  after  the  servant,  the  millionaire  sat  down  on 
a  sofa  close  to  which  he  had  placed  the  chair  now 
tenanted  by  Winifred. 

"Some  new  arrangements  are  under  negotiation 
for  this  theater,"  he  said,  "and  they  intimately  con- 
cern you.  But  don't  look  so  startled.  It  is  nothing 
to  be  frightened  about  —  on  the  contrary,  indeed.  I 
sent  for  some  champagne  in  the  hope  you'd  join  me 
in  drinking  to  their  success." 

"I  seldom  drink  champagne,  thank  you,"  said 
Winifred,  with  a  slight  stiffness  of  manner.  She 
liked  the  man  less  than  ever  to-night,  and  wished 
that  if  he  had  any  criticism  to  make,  he  would  make 
and  have  done  with  it.  Anyway,  she  would  certainly 
not  drink  champagne  with  him,  alone  here  in  the 
boudoir. 

"Won't  you  make  an  exception  this  once,  and 
please  me  ?  Mr.  Anderson  always  offers  his  friends 
something  when  they  visit  him  in  this  room,"  pleaded 
the  millionaire. 

"But  I'm  here  on  business."  And  Winifred's  smile 
salved  the  abruptness  of  her  speech. 

"This  chocolate,  then.  I  asked  for  it  in  case  you 
didn't  like  champagne.  It's  cold  this  evening.  I 
shall  think  it  unfriendly  of  you  if  you  won't;  and  it 
would  be  a  grief  to  me  if  you  were  unfriendly.  I 


SOMETHING  DAZZLING  27 

know  what  a  Caliban  I  am,  Miss  Gray;  and  I'm  very 
sensitive  where  women  I  admire  are  concerned." 

He  poured  out  the  chocolate,  and,  because  she  was 
sorry  for  the  hideous  man,  although  he  had  millions, 
Winifred  took  the  little  cup  from  him.  As  she  did 
so,  his  fingers  touched  hers.  Something  made  her 
look  up  at  the  same  instant.  She  met  his  eyes,  and 
shivered  faintly. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  speak.  Then  he  went 
on  quietly:  "I  am  going  to  talk  to  you  in  confidence. 
I  know,  and  Mr.  Anderson  knows,  that  you  are  to 
be  trusted.  Mr.  Anderson  has  had  some  bad  luck." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Winifred,  "I'm  sorry!  I  thought 
this  piece  had  done  so  well." 

"So  it  has,  or  it  wouldn't  have  run  all  through 
the  hot  summer,  with  only  the  short  holiday  you  all 
had  in  August.  The  bad  luck  was  before  the  present 
play,  and  the  receipts  from  it  have  only  been  enough 
to  pay  old  debts.  A  dead  secret  is  that  the  man  who 
has  acted  as  business-manager  for  the  last  year  was 
put  in  by  Mr.  Anderson's  creditors  to  look  after  their 
interests.  A  superior  'man  in  possession,'  so  to  speak. 
Of  course  a  very  embarrassing  position  for  Mr.  Ander- 
son, who  has  got  precious  little  for  himself  out  of  his 
present  success." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Winifred  again,  wondering 
very  much  why  she  —  a  comparatively  insignificant 
member  of  the  company  —  should  be  told  these  things, 
unless  Mr.  Macaire  had  for  some  queer  reason  been 
deputed  to  suggest  that  everybody  should  take  half 
salaries. 

"It  is  in  your  power  to  help  Mr.  Anderson  place 
things  on  a  far  better  footing,"  went  on  the  millionaire. 


28  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"Fd  be  glad  to  do  anything,"  stammered  the  girl. 

"Would  you  really?"  The  hideous  face  drew 
nearer;  the  marred  eyes  looked  closely  into  hers. 
Involuntarily  she  shrank  back. 

"Mrs.  Peter  Carlton  and  Mr.  Anderson  have  not 
been  getting  on  very  well  together  of  late,"  he  an- 
nounced. "I  don't  care  for  her  acting,  and  she's 
getting  too  passee  to  be  much  of  a  'draw/  I  have 
told  my  friend  Anderson  that,  if  he  had  a  different 
leading  lady,  I  would  act  as  his  backer.  He  might 
call  on  me  for  anything  he  liked,  up  to  half  a  million. 
Naturally,  Anderson  is  much  taken  with  the  idea. 
It  would  be  a  new  lease  of  life  for  him.  He  could 
do  things  very  differently  in  the  theater.  His  pro- 
ductions would  be  on  a  finer  scale;  the  salaries  paid 
would  be  better.  I  asked  his  permission  to  speak  to 
you  on  the  subject." 

"To  me?"  Winifred  hardly  dared  to  think  that 
she  understood.  The  blood  surged  to  her  forehead; 
but  her  make-up  hid  the  sudden  change  of  color,  and 
she  was  thankful  that  it  did. 

"You  would  be  my  choice  as  leading  lady;  and 
Mr.  Anderson  agrees  with  me  in  thinking  that  it  is 
good." 

His  face  was  very  close  to  her  shoulder,  as  he  bent 
forward  from  his  sofa,  and  Winifred  sprang  up. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Macaire,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  can't  think 
that  you  mean  it." 

"I  never  meant  anything  more  in  my  life  — except 
once,  perhaps."  (His  face  changed  and  darkened 
with  some  memory,  which  seemed  to  pass  across  his 
light  eyes  like  a  storm-cloud.)  "No  —  on  second 
thoughts,  not  more,  even  then.  You  have  begun  to 


SOMETHING  DAZZLING  29 

rehearse  Celia,  in  As  You  Like  It,  I  believe,  Miss 
Gray.  How  would  you  like  to  play  Rosalind  instead  ? 
You  would  be  an  ideal  Rosalind,  to  my  thinking." 

The  girl's  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  She  had  been 
Rosalind  in  the  country  touring  company  from  which 
Mr.  Anderson  had  transplanted  her.  To  play  the 
part  here  —  in  London  —  would  be  too  glorious  to  be 
true.  She  was  very  young — only  just  twenty;  and 
for  a  moment  she  could  hardly  breathe,  confronted 
with  such  a  magnificent  thought.  Then,  behind  that 
thought,  a  dark  Shadow  seemed  to  steal,  and  hover. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  FOUR-WHEELED    CAB 

"MRS.  CARLTON  surely  won't  leave  Mr.  Anderson 
so  soon  —  so  suddenly,"  Winifred  said. 

"She  is  leaving  at  once.  You  may  take  it  from 
me,  Miss  Gray,"  answered  Macaire,  "that  the  place 
of  leading  lady  will  be  vacant  for  you  to  fill." 

The  girl  felt  curiously  giddy.  "And  —  and  if  —  I 
should  have  to  refuse  ?"  she  faltered. 

"I'm  afraid,  in  that  case,  there'd  be  trouble  —  for 
everyone.  Mr.  Anderson  is  in  a  peculiar  position. 
He  has  been  careless.  He  must  have  money  at  once. 
Some  enemies  of  his  have  been  at  work.  Certain 
firms  have  hesitated  to  trust  him.  The  new  produc- 
tion is  imperiled.  If  I  should  not  see  my  way  to 
backing  him,  Mr.  Anderson  would  be  at  his  wits'  end." 

"But  — you  have  promised  him,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Only  conditionally." 

"You  mean — but  no,  you  can't  mean  that - 

"I  do  mean  that,  and  nothing  else.  With  you 
for  his  leading  lady,  matters  are  to  go  smoothly  with 
my  friend  George  Anderson." 

Lionel  Macaire  had  not  risen  when  Winifred  rose. 
He  had  sat  still,  watching  her.  But  now  he  got  up, 
with  his  peculiar  limp,  like  the  sideways  gait  of  a 
crab,  and  stood  in  front  of  the  girl.  She  was  obliged 
to  look  him  in  the  face,  unless  she  turned  abruptly 

30 


A  FOUR-WHEELED  CAB  31 

from  him,  and  in  her  confusion  she  stammered  out 
the  first  words  that  came  into  her  mind. 

"  It's  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  heard !  Why  — 
should  you  do  all  that  for  me  ?  You  scarcely  know 
me.  We  are  not  friends.  It's  you  and  Mr.  Anderson 
who- 

"But  I  wish  that  we  should  be  friends.  Don't 
you  really  understand  ?  Winnie,  don't  you  see  that 
I'm  in  love  with  you  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  caught  her  hands,  but  she  snatched 
them  away,  panting,  her  eyes  dilated.  It  made  her 
sick  to  hear  him  call  her  "Winnie."  She  was  that 
to  no  one  save  her  mother  and  brother. 

"You  must  be  making  fun  of  me!"  she  cried. 
"  You  are  almost  old,  and  you  are  very  rich  —  horri- 
bly rich  —  while  I  am  only  a  young  girl,  and  nobody 
at  all.  I  —  I  thought  you  were  married.  Anyway, 
you  can't  really  want  to  marry  me.  I  - 

"My  darling  child,  I  can  give  you  anything  on 
earth,"  pleaded  the  millionaire.  "But  I  can't  marry 
you.  You  can  have  a  theater  of  your  own,  if  you  like, 
when  you're  tired  of  being  leading  lady  here " 

"Stop!"  cut  in  Winifred,  in  a  low,  changed  voice. 
"I  do  understand  you  now  —  at  last.  I  — was  very 
stupid  at  first.  Mr.  Macaire,  we  needn't  talk  about 
this  any  more.  I've  quite  decided." 

"You're  going  to  let  me  lay  the  world  at  your 
feet?" 

"I'm  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind!"  the  girl 
broke  out  irritably,  almost  childishly,  for  she  was 
keeping  back  hysterical  tears.  "Oh,  it  doesn't  seem 
a  bit  real,  but  it's  horrid,  perfectly  horrid,  that  such 
a  thing  should  happen  to  me.  I  must  go  now  —  and 


32  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

please,  Mr.  Macaire,  never  speak  to  me  again  — 
about  anything." 

He  caught  her  dress  and  held  it  tightly.  "You 
shan't  go!"  he  ejaculated.  "As  you  said,  I  am  old 
—  and  I'm  the  ugliest  man  on  earth  —  I  know  that. 
But  I  can  give  you  things  that  queens  might  wish  for 
in  vain.  And  I  can  love  more  than  other  men.  I've 
made  love  to  many  women,  but  I've  only  loved  one 
woman  in  my  life  before  I  saw  you.  You've  got  hair 
and  eyes  like  hers.  That's  why  I  thought  of  you  at 
first.  Now  I  love  you  for  yourself.  I  love  you  with 
all  the  love  I  gave  her,  and  as  much  again  besides. 
I  will  have  you." 

"No,  you  won't,  Mr.  Macaire."  The  girl's  voice 
trembled  between  anger  and  tears.  "Let  my  dress 
go.  You  will  tear  it  to  pieces." 

"I  will  do  more.  I'll  tear  you  to  pieces  if  you  try  to 
resist  me,"  said  Macaire.  "  I  have  done  that  with  every- 
one who  went  against  me,  all  my  life.  I  never  failed." 

"I  — I'm  not  afraid  of  you!"  (She  was  beginning 
to  be  horribly  afraid  of  him.  But  she  would  have 
died  in  this  moment  rather  than  let  him  see  that.) 
"It's  cowardly  of  you  to  threaten  me." 

"I  don't  threaten,  I  warn.  You  are  ambitious.  I 
can  more  than  satisfy  your  highest  ambitions  on  the 
stage  —  and  in  society,  too,  if  you  have  them.  If  you 
mean  to  be  foolish,  my  little  Winifred,  you  will  never 
get  on  —  you  will  never  get  on." 

"Some  ways  of  getting  on  cost  too  much,"  said 

Winifred,  "and  this  is  one  of  them.     If  you  don't  let 

me  go  on,  I  shall  cry  out  for  help.     You  don't  think 

I'd  dare  to  —  but  I  will  —  I  will !     Oh,  I  loathe  you 

-you  are  horrible!" 


A  FOUR-WHEELED  CAB  33 

"Go,  then!"  he  released  his  hold  upon  her  dress 
so  suddenly  that,  straining  to  be  free,  she  staggered 
forward,  only  saving  herself  from  falling  by  catching 
at  the  handle  of  the  door.  "Go,  then;  but  I  tell  you 
this,  you'll  come  back  to  me  —  on  your  knees." 

"Never!" 

"We  shall  see!" 

Blindly  she  was  fumbling  with  the  door-knob.  He 
caught  away  her  hand,  and  held  the  door  open  for 
her  to  pass  out,  bowing  and  smiling  a  hateful  smile. 

"You  loathe  me.  I  am  horrible.  I  shall  not  for- 
get that.  But  —  we  shall  see." 


Winifred  was  only  just  in  time  to  take  up  her  cue. 
Her  head  was  throbbing,  her  heart  beating  so  thickly 
that  she  could  not  think.  She  forgot  the  lines  that 
were  so  familiar  to  her,  and  twice  (in  stage  parlance) 
"dried  up,"  having  to  be  prompted  in  a  whisper  by 
Mr.  Anderson,  with  whom  she  was  playing  the  scene. 

If  it  had  been  with  anyone  else,  she  thought  des- 
perately that  she  might  have  done  better;  but  it  was 
sickening  to  feel  that  he  must  have  known,  or  at 
least  shrewdly  guessed,  what  sort  of  things  the  mil- 
lionaire meant  to  say,  and  that  now,  every  moment, 
he  was  watching  her  to  seize  anxiously  upon  the 
secrets  of  her  mind.  Perhaps  the  matter  was  not 
really  of  as  great  importance  to  him  as  Mr.  Macaire 
had  said  that  it  was;  but  certainly  there  was  some 
understanding  between  the  two  men  in  which  she 
was  concerned. 

Winifred   hardly   knew  how  she   got  through   the 


34  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

rest  of  her  part  that  night.  She  was  conscious  dur- 
ing the  last  act  that  Macaire  was  sitting  in  the  Royal 
box  again,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  The  giddiness 
came  over  her  once  more,  and  it  was  only  by  a  severe 
effort  that  she  continued  the  scene. 

A  good  deal  of  fun  generally  went  on  behind  the 
scenes  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's,  for  the  members 
of  the  company  were  almost  all  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
and  they  knew  each  other  very  well.  Between  acts 
and  between  scenes  much  talking  and  laughing  and 
some  flirting  was  the  order  of  the  day  in  the  green- 
room, but  to-night  Winifred  Gray  was  missing.  She 
kept  closely  to  her  dressing-room,  and  her  maid  won- 
dered what  had  happened  to  make  her  so  silent. 

"After  all,  I  don't  quite  see  what  he  can  do,"  she 
assured  herself  over  and  over  again.  "He  can't 
expect  Mr.  Anderson  to  discharge  me  just  because 
I  refused  to  accept  insults  from  him." 

Still,  she  was  vaguely  afraid  and  depressed.  Some- 
thing indefinite,  yet  terrible,  seemed  to  be  hanging 
over  her  —  so  indefinite  that  she  did  not  know  in  what 
form  to  look  for  it,  or  in  what  direction  to  attempt 
escape. 

The  play  came  to  an  end  at  eleven,  and  every  night 
at  a  quarter  past  the  hour  a  four-wheeled  cab,  engaged 
by  the  month,  called  for  Miss  Gray  at  the  stage  door. 
She  was  generally  ready  by  that  time,  but  once  in  a 
while  the  driver  had  to  wait. 

This  evening  as  usual  a  little  crowd  began  to  gather 
near  the  stage  entrance  five  minutes  after  the  curtain 
went  down  —  a  crowd  of  boys  and  young  men  who 
thought  lingering  no  waste  of  time  if  they  could  see 
the  actresses  come  out;  for  there  were  several  at  the 


A  FOUR-WHEELED  CAB  35 

Duke    of   Clarence's    who   were    "the    fashion"    for 
reason  of  their  good  looks  or  some  other  attraction. 

Most  of  the  men  were  of  the  invertebrate  type 
known  as  "Johnnies,"  and  therefore  a  tall,  roughly 
dressed  young  fellow  with  a  wide-brimmed  soft  felt  hat 
was  conspicuous  among  them.  He  was  ashamed  of 
himself  for  being  there,  nevertheless  he  had  not  resisted 
the  temptation  to  try  and  see  Winifred  Gray  once 
again. 

When  he  left  Mr.  Anderson,  Newcome  had  walked 
out  of  the  theater  with  a  nod  and  a  "thank  you!" 
to  Hansey  at  the  stage  door.  For  some  time  he  had 
wandered  aimlessly  through  the  streets,  with  a  great 
loneliness,  among  the  crowds  who  cared  nothing  for 
him;  then,  suddenly,  he  had  turned  and  gone  back  to 
the  Duke  of  Clarence's.  At  the  pit  entrance  he  had 
paid  half-a-crown  (an  extravagance  in  his  circum- 
stances), luckily  finding  a  seat,  late  as  it  was,  and  see- 
ing the  play  through  to  the  end. 

When  it  was  over  he  could  hardly  have  told  what 
it  was  all  about;  but  one  thing  he  was  sure  of.  Miss 
Gray  was  the  prettiest  and  the  sweetest  girl  he  had 
ever  seen  in  his  life.  He  would  have  liked  to  do  some 
great  service  for  her,  not  to  win  her  notice,  but  because 
of  the  warmth  there  would  be  in  his  heart  only  to  feel 
that  he  had  done  it.  Something  about  her  —  per- 
haps the  expression  of  her  eyes,  or  the  way  that  her 
bright  hair  waved  back  from  her  forehead  —  reminded 
him  of  a  woman  who  had  once  been  supreme  in  beauty; 
a  dead  woman  whose  words  had  sent  him  tramping, 
almost  penniless  and  through  bitter  hardships,  hun- 
dreds of  miles  on  the  way  to  England. 

A  girl  and  a  man  sitting  directly  in  front  of  him 


36  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

were  talking  of  Winifred  Gray,  and  Hope  Newcome 
listened  with  interest.  If  they  had  spoken  evil  of 
her  he  would  certainly  have  inflicted  summary  punish- 
ment upon  the  man,  but  they  had  only  good  things 
to  say.  The  girl  told  the  man  what  a  surprising 
"hit"  Miss  Gray  had  made  last  spring,  and  how  she 
had  been  "made"  after  her  first  night  at  the  Duke 
of  Clarence's  by  the  extravagant  praise  of  one  famous 
dramatic  critic.  She  had  only  been  in  London  for  a 
few  months,  but  already  her  photographs  were  in 
greater  demand  than  those  of  any  other  actress  (Hope 
resolved  to  get  one),  while  there  was  a  new  style  of 
shoe  and  a  new  rose  named  after  her. 

Newcome  went  out  with  the  crowd  when  it  was 
all  over,  but  almost  involuntarily  he  turned  towards 
the  stage  entrance  for  one  more  look  at  his  divinity, 
whom  perhaps  he  should  never  have  a  chance  to  see 
again. 

The  "Johnnies"  stared  superciliously  at  him,  and 
looked  at  each  other  with  raised,  questioning  eye- 
brows. Perhaps  they  would  have  laughed;  but  Hope 
Newcome  was  not  exactly  the  sort  of  man  one  laughed 
at  unless  one  were  over  six  feet  in  height  and  broad 
in  proportion.  Still,  he  was  ashamed  of  himself  for 
forming  one  of  such  a  group,  and  was  half-inclined 
to  go  away  again  without  waiting  for  a  glimpse  of 
Miss  Gray,  when  a  smart  brougham  drove  up,  and 
close  behind  it  a  four-wheeled  cab. 

"That's  Mrs.  Peter  Carlton's  little  turnout,"  one 
youth  said  to  another,  nodding  at  the  brougham; 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  big  man,  who  appeared 
to  be  without  companions,  stepped  to  the  curb-stone 
and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  the  driver  of  the  cab. 


A  FOUR-WHEELED  CAB  37 

"That's  our  Winnie's  chariot.  Comes  for  her 
every  night.  Not  so  grand  as  the  other,  eh  ?"  remarked 
the  youth. 

"Give  her  time,"  said  his  friend;  and  they  both 
laughed. 

Hope  Newcome  clenched  his  hands,  and  breathed 
hard.  He  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to 
teach  the  pair  a  lesson  in  discretion,  but  he  realized 
that  for  Miss  Gray's  sake  he  had  better  let  them 
alone.  He  looked  with  great  interest  at  the  plain 
vehicle  which  had  the  honor  of  taking  Winifred  Gray 
home,  and  he  wondered  what  the  well-dressed  man 
on  the  pavement  was  saying  in  such  a  low,  earnest 
tone  to  the  cabman.  He  could  not  hear  the  words, 
but,  as  he  listened,  he  caught  the  driver's  answer. 
"That's  all  right,  sir,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  It's  as 
much  as  my  place  would  be  worth." 

Newcome's  ears  seemed  suddenly  to  be  sharp- 
ened. "Look  here,"  the  other  urged,  "there's  no 
reason  -  '  again  his  voice  dropped  so  low  that  the 
rest  was  lost. 

For  three  or  four  minutes  the  conversation  went 
on,  Newcome  the  only  one  in  the  crowd  who  con- 
tinued to  give  it  attention,  for  meanwhile  Mrs.  Peter 
Carlton  and  her  maid  had  come  out  from  the  stage 
door,  the  actress  in  a  magnificent  evening  wrap  over 
a  ball-gown.  She  was  evidently  "going  on"  some- 
where. Then  appeared  two  or  three  pretty  girls,  whose 
small  parts  and  salaries  to  match  did  not  prevent 
their  being  beautifully  dressed. 

But  Newcome  did  not  even  see  them.  The  man 
who  had  been  talking  with  the  cabdriver  had  now 
climbed  up  on  the  seat  beside  him,  where,  having 


38  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

turned  up  the  collar  of  his  light  overcoat  and  pulled 
his  round,  black  hat  somewhat  down  over  his  eyes, 
he  sat  silently  with  arms  folded. 

At  any  moment  now  Miss  Gray  was  likely  to  come 
out.  The  blood  was  beating  in  Hope  Newcome's 
temples.  He  had  only  landed  in  Liverpool  a  week 
ago  from  the  ship  in  which  he  had  been  a  steerage 
passenger.  From  Liverpool  he  had  walked  much 
of  the  way  to  London,  to  economize  the  little  money 
he  had  left. 

In  that  part  of  America  whence  he  came  men  did 
not  take  very  long  to  make  up  their  minds  or  to  act 
after  they  were  made  up,  and  Newcome  had  not 
spent  time  enough  in  a  slower  country  to  change  his 
ways. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  because  he  hated  mak- 
ing himself  more  conspicuous  than  he  was  already, 
and  prudence  whispered  that  he  might  be  stumbling 
into  a  mare's  nest.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  took  one  stride  across  the  pavement  and 
addressed  the  driver  of  Miss  Gray's  cab. 

"If  I  were  you,"  said  he,  "I  wouldn't  have  any- 
one with  me  on  that  box-seat." 

Cabby  stared,  flushed  and  frowned,  each  phase 
of  his  emotion  being  visible  in  the  light  over  the 
-stage  door. 

"Of  all  the  cheek  I  ever  'card,"  he  observed  in 
return,  "if  that  ain't  about  the  wust!  What  business 
is  it  o*  yours,  anyhow,  Mr.  Buffalo  Bill?" 

Hope  Newcome's  handsome  face  was  red,  and  his 
eyes  flashed;  but  he  was  not  going  to  spoil  everything 
by  a  vulgar  brawl  with  a  cabman.  He  had  spoken 
in  a  low  voice,  but  cabby  had  purposely  replied  in  a 


A  FOUR-WHEELED  CAB  39 

loud,  clear  tone,  so  that  everyone  near  turned  to  see 
what  might  be  going  on. 

"I  overheard  your  conversation  a  few  minutes 
ago  with  the  man  you've  got  beside  you,'*  Newcome 
answered  as  quietly  as  before.  This  was  an  exagger- 
ation of  the  truth;  but  it  had  the  effect  he  intended. 
The  driver  wriggled  on  his  seat  and  flashed  a  look 
at  his  companion  as  if  demanding  to  be  got  out  of 
the  difficulty. 

"I'm  a  friend  of  his,"  said  the  other  quickly.  "If 
you  heard  anything,  you  must  have  heard  that.  I'd 
like  to  know  what  affair  it  is  of  yours,  though  ?" 

"Well,  I  just  thought  I'd  mention  it,  that's  all," 
drawled  Newcome,  speaking  for  the  first  time  with  a 
pronounced  Yankee  accent.  "And  see  here,  I  haven't 
got  much  time  to  spare  for  you.  How  long  are  you 
going  to  take  about  getting  down  ? " 

"Do  you  want  me  to  call  the  police,  and  recom- 
mend them  to  pack  you  off  to  Bedlam?"  demanded 
the  man  by  the  driver. 

"You  can  do  as  you  like  about  that,"  said  New- 
come,  through  his  nose,  "after  you've  come  down 
off  your  perch." 

Mrs.  Peter  Carlton  had  driven  away,  and  the 
pretty  girls  had  gone,  and  the  crowd  that  was  left 
threw  itself  heart  and  soul  into  the  scene.  Nobody 
had  interfered  as  yet;  for  it  appeared  to  all  that  under 
the  badinage  there  was  more  than  met  the  eye  or  ear. 

"Come  now,  you  clear  out  of  this,"  advised  the 
driver's  companion,  "or  you'll  get  something  you 
won't  like." 

"I'll  go  when  you've  got  down." 

The  man,  who  had  kept  his  temper,  and  kept  his 


40  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

voice  under  control  as  well,  grew  suddenly  reckless. 
It  was  twenty  minutes  past  eleven,  and  he  was  anxious 
to  be  rid  of  this  persistent  Paul  Pry,  whose  inter- 
ference was  likely  to  prove  inconvenient.  He  had 
been  employed  to  do  a  certain  thing,  and  though 
his  bargain  with  cabby  was  far  from  complete,  he  had 
found  the  man  amenable  to  reason,  and  was  morally 
sure  he  would  be  open  to  further,  more  dazzling  offers. 
Already  he  had  paid  five  pounds  down  for  the  mere 
privilege  of  sitting  on  the  box-seat  of  Miss  Gray's 
cab,  the  driver  so  far  suspecting  nothing  more  ser- 
ious than  lovesick  romance;  and  there  were  other 
instructions  which  must  be  carried  out. 

He  leaned  across  the  cabman  and  snatched  the 
whip  from  its  socket.  "Now!"  he  exclaimed.  "Will 
you  stop  this  drunken  game?"  He  glared  down  at 
the  young  man  on  the  pavement,  chuckling  over  the 
secret  of  his  own  great  strength  —  the  strength  by 
which  he  partly  got  his  living. 

Hope  Newcome  gave  him  back  stare  for  stare. 
With  a  quick  movement  he  caught  the  threatening 
whip  in  the  middle  a  few  inches  higher  up  than  the 
spot  where  the  other  grasped  it.  The  man  on  the 
box  gave  a  wrench.  Newcome  twisted  the  other 
way,  and  the  whip  broke  off  short  with  a  snap. 

It  was  at  this  instant  that  Winifred  Gray  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   GRANTING   OF  A   WISH 

THE  snap  of  the  breaking  whip  was  sharp  in  the 
girl's  ears.  She  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the 
thing  that  she  saw,  though  it  was  clear  that  some- 
thing extraordinary  was  happening  —  something  in 
which  her  own  cab  and  cabman  were  intimately  con- 
cerned. 

What  she  saw  was  a  strange,  silent  struggle  between 
a  man  on  the  box-seat  beside  the  driver  and  a  man 
below,  who  had  pressed  himself  close  to  the  wheel. 
That  man  she  had  seen  before.  It  was  the  "bronze 
statue"  she  had  wondered  about,  and  pitied  and 
admired  all  in  a  breath  as  she  went  into  the  theater 
a  few  hours  —  or  was  it  years  ?  —  ago. 

She  saw  the  man  on  the  seat  raise  the  broken  stock 
of  the  whip  as  if  to  strike.  She  saw  the  other  seize 
his  arm,  and  she  saw  the  struggle  that  followed;  the 
big  fellow  on  the  box,  whose  right  arm  was  held  fast, 
getting  in  one  fierce,  sudden  blow  with  his  clenched 
left  fist,  but  no  more.  The  man  on  the  pavement 
dodged  his  head  like  a  practiced  boxer,  and  the  vicious 
blow  glanced  along  his  forehead.  Winifred's  lips  had 
parted  to  cry  out  "What  has  happened?"  yet  the 
words  were  not  uttered.  Nobody  spoke;  but  the  crowd 
of  idlers  and  loafers  surged  forward  toward  the  com- 
batants, 

41 


42  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

The  driver  would  have  started  his  horse  and  got 
away  if  he  could;  but  in  a  fraction  of  a  second  the 
tall,  lithe  fellow  on  the  pavement  realized  his  inten- 
tion, snatched  the  reins  and  twisted  them  round  his 
own  wrist.  Next  instant  the  big  man  on  the  box  gave 
a  yelp  of  agony.  The  hand  that  clutched  the  whip- 
stock  dropped  limply;  the  left  was  thrown  out  blindly 
again  in  a  mechanical  attempt  at  retaliation  that 
missed  its  mark,  and  seeing  his  opportunity  the  "  bronze 
statue's"  tactics  changed.  In  a  flash  the  hand  that 
had  grasped  the  other's  limp  right  arm  sprang  to  his 
neck,  and  twisting  in  his  coat-collar,  wrenched  the  stout 
figure  from  its  high  seat,  bringing  it  in  a  heap  to  the 
ground.  Then  it  was  jerked  up  again,  tottering  and 
staggering,  pale  lips  cursing. 

"You  shall  pay  for  this  —  I'll  have  you  up  for 
assault!"  the  man  sputtered,  his  face  yellow- white. 
"D — n  you,  you've  broken  my  arm." 

"Have  me  up  by  all  means,"  returned  Newcome 
politely,  though  his  breath  was  coming  and  going 
quickly;  "if  you  don't  mind  the  circumstances  get- 
ting out,  I'm  sure  I  don't.  I've  nothing  to  conceal." 

"What's  up  here?"  demanded  George  Ander- 
son's voice;  and,  turning  with  a  start,  Winifred  saw 
not  only  the  manager  but  his  friend  Lionel  Macaire. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Newcome!"  the  actor  went  on. 
"Have  you  been  getting  into  a  row?" 

Hope  Newcome  faced  him  frankly.  If  he  had 
glanced  at  the  millionaire  instead,  he  would  have 
seen  a  thing  Winifred  saw  —  or  thought  that  she  saw 
—  with  surprise  and  bewilderment. 

Lionel  Macaire's  eyes  were  not  even  for  her.  They 
had  darted  straight  as  a  hawk  darts  upon  its  prey, 


THE  GRANTING  OF  A  WISH  43 

to  the  face  of  the  man  whom  Newcome  had  so  for- 
cibly unseated.  The  look  was  brief  as  a  lightning 
flash,  but  full  of  concentrated  passion. 

Then  the  eyes  traveled  to  the  man  with  the  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  rested  upon  him  for  an  instant  with  an 
extraordinary,  an  .unreadable  expression.  And  both 
looks  passed  so  quickly  that  a  second  later  Winifred 
was  hardly  sure  she  had  not  magnified  or  altogether 
imagined  their  meaning. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Anderson,  it  won't  amount  to  a 
'row/"  Hope  Newcome  answered,  wiping  a  trickle 
of  blood  from  his  forehead,  where  a  sledge-hammer 
fist  had  struck,  aiming  for  his  temple.  "I  merely 
objected,  on  principle,  to  persons  getting  a  drive  on 
other  people's  cabs,  that's  all." 

"The  gent  was  a  friend  of  mine,"  grumbled  the 
frightened  cabman,  flinging  his  crumb  of  explanation 
to  Winifred  Gray,  who  was  his  employer.  "I  guv 
'im  permission  to  get  up  beside  me,  not  thinkin'  the 
lydy  would  object,  when  blow  me  if  this  'ere  bloke 
didn't  come  interferin'." 

"The  'gent,'  as  you  call  him,  paid  for  your  friend- 
ship. I  saw  that  —  for  it  was  clumsily  done,"  said 
Newcome.  "And  if  I  might  presume  to  advise  the 
lady  who  has  hired  you,  I  would  suggest  that  she 
asks  for  another  driver  to-morrow  night." 

Once  the  man  who  stood  nursing  his  broken  arm 
looked  at  Mr.  Macaire.  In  his  bloodshot  eyes  there 
was  a  question  or  an  appeal,  but  it  was  unanswered. 
The  millionaire  stared  through  the  great  lumbering 
form  as  if  it  had  been  of  thinnest  air,  his  discolored 
face  expressionless  now  as  a  mask. 

With   the   mien  of  one  shamed   and   defeated  yet 


44 

defiant  still,  the  big  fellow  went  lumbering  off,  mut- 
tering to  himself  as  he  walked.  And  with  him  the 
crowd  of  onlookers  began  melting  away.  The  fun 
was  over  for  them,  though  it  had  been  prime  while  it 
lasted.  They  had  seen  what  they  came  for,  and  a  good 
deal  more  besides.  Of  the  principal  actors  in  the 
scene,  only  Winifred  looked  after  the  departing  one, 
noting  with  a  glance  of  shuddering  fascination  the 
bull-neck  and  the  formidable  though  slouching  shoul- 
ders. Then  her  eyes  came  back  to  the  "  bronze  statue/' 

"Thank  you  for  your  advice,"  she  said  quite  sim- 
ply. "I  shall  take  it.  And  thank  you  for  what  you 
have  done  —  though  I  scarcely  understand  even  now 
what  it  was/' 

"There  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  answered 
Hope  Newcome.  "  But  —  may  I  call  you  another 
cab?" 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  trouble  you  further,"  said 
Mr.  Macaire,  speaking  for  the  first  time  since  his 
appearance.  "Mr.  Anderson  and  I  will  see  that 
Miss  Gray  is  taken  care  of." 

To  save  her  life  Winifred  could  not  help  looking 
straight  into  Hope  Newcome's  eyes.  Perhaps  she 
was  not  wholly  responsible  for  the  message  they 
conveyed,  but  to  him  they  seemed  to  say:  "I  don't 
want  them  to  do  anything  for  me.  I  want  you  to 
do  it." 

Accepting  the  message,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  the 
young  pauper  replied  to  the  millionaire  like  an  equal. 
"I  assure  you  it  is  no  trouble,  but  a  pleasure.  If 
the  lady  will  allow  me,  I  should  like  to  get  her  a  cab." 
Near  by  a  footman  was  touching  his  tall  hat.  Mr. 
Macaire's  carriage  had  arrived. 


THE  GRANTING  OF  A  WISH  45 

"Come  along,  Anderson,"  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  Both  men  bowed  low  to  Winifred;  Ander- 
son nodded  to  Newcome,  Macaire  gave  him  another 
curiously  contemplative  look,  and  then  the  two  were 
shut  up  by  the  footman  in  the  millionaire's  carriage. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  have  me,  miss?"  whined  the 
driver.  "None  of  this  business  ain't  my  fault." 

"You  can  send  in  your  bill  to-morrow  morning, 
and  I'll  pay  you  what  is  due,"  said  Winifred.  "But 
- 1  shan't  want  you  again.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  trust 
you  after  this." 

Mumbling,  he  drove  away,  the  five  pounds  he  had 
earned  so  easily  partly  consoling  him  for  the  business 
he  had  lost. 

Not  far  away  was  the  corner  of  the  street,  crossed 
by  a  wider  thoroughfare;  and  there  cabs  plied  for 
hire.  As  the  vehicle  just  discharged  vanished  in  one 
direction  a  wave  of  Hope  Newcome' s  hand  —  he 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  street  —  brought  a  han- 
som round  the  corner  and  up  to  the  stage  door. 

"Do  you  mind  it's  not  being  a  four-wheeled  one?" 
he  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Winifred,  "I  like  it  better  —  for 
to-night;  it's  quicker.  But  won't  you  tell  me,  now 
the  other  cabman's  gone,  exactly  what  he  did  that 
was  wrong,  and  —  how  you  happened  to  notice  it 
at  all?" 

"I  overheard  that  big  fellow  trying  to  bribe  him, 
and  though  I  couldn't  catch  much  that  they  said  it 
was  easy  after  the  first  to  put  two  and  two  together," 
answered  Newcome.  "For  some  reason,  the  man 
wanted  to  drive  on  your  cab,  and  —  well,  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  wish  him  to  if  you  understood.  So  I 


46  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

suggested  that  he  should  get  off,  and  when  he  wouldn't 
I  took  him  off,  that's  all." 

"I  should  think  you  did!"  Winifred's  mood  was 
far  enough  from  merriment,  but  she  broke  into  a 
little  laugh  over  his  quiet  way  of  explaining  the  thing 
that  he  had  done  —  also  at  the  expression  of  mingled 
bewilderment  and  alarm  on  the  withered-apple  face 
of  her  maid. 

She  let  Newcome  help  her  into  the  hansom,  but  it 
was  the  maid  who  told  the  new  cabman  where  to 
drive.  Then,  with  a  smile  and  a  last  murmur  of 
thanks,  she  was  gone  out  of  his  sight. 

"I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  what  that  brute's 
real  game  was,"  the  young  man  said  to  himself,  as 
wistfully  he  watched  the  hansom  drive  round  the 
corner  and  disappear.  "Did  he  only  want  to  find 
out  where  she  lived,  or  was  there  something  more  ? 
Was  he  doing  it  on  'his  own/  or  was  there  some  one 
else  behind  him  ?  Well,  anyhow,  whatever  it  was, 
it  didn't  come  off.  And  he'll  give  a  job  to  a  surgeon 
before  he  gets  into  any  more  mischief.  I  was  in 
luck  to  have  done  it,  out  of  training  as  I  am;  but  I 
felt  the  small  bone  of  his  arm  snap  —  and  serve  him 
right." 

Hope  Newcome  walked  away,  turning  his  face 
southward,  for  his  lodgings  were  beyond  the  bounds 
of  polite  civilization,  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  river. 
As  he  crossed  Waterloo  Bridge,  the  moon  —  honey- 
yellow  in  a  hyacinth  sky  —  hung  over  the  water,  its 
broken  reflection  like  a  fallen  cup  of  gold  that  drifted 
down  the  river  with  the  tide.  The  young  man  stood 
still,  and  looked  back  with  a  strange,  new  ache  in  his 
heart,  at  the  London  that  he  had  left,  its  buildings 


47 

stately,  almost  repellently  splendid,  silhouetted  against 
the  sky  in  the  moon-paled  darkness.  He  was  thrust 
out  of  that  splendor,  not  wanted.  He  was  poor,  and 
alone,  and  the  mission  on  which  he  had  come  seemed 
as  far  from  him  in  its  accomplishment  as  the  moon 
was  from  the  black  water.  Yet  the  water  was  swift, 
and  it  caught  and  held  the  moon's  image. 

He  was  young,  and  poverty  —  even  the  knowledge 
of  hunger  unsatisfied  —  had  not  silenced  the  high 
song  of  his  blood,  or  chilled  its  warmth.  He  did  not 
despair.  And  though  he  had  met  disappointment  to- 
night, in  seeking  the  first  round  of  the  ladder,  still,  he 
had  seen  a  face  fair  enough  to  brighten  darkness,  and  he 
had  had  his  wish.  He  had  asked  of  Fate  that  he  might 
serve  Winifred  Gray;  and  he  had  served  her.  Though 
they  never  met  again,  she  would  not  quite  forget. 


The  thought  of  home  was  like  a  balm  on  a  wound 
to  Winifred  that  night.  She  and  her  mother  had 
taken  a  small  flat  near  Bryanston  square,  and  when 
the  hansom  stopped  before  the  door  of  Bryancourt 
mansions,  the  girl  looked  up  to  the  lighted  windows 
as  she  might  have  looked  for  a  star. 

Her  mother  knew  the  time  when  she  was  to  be 
expected  back  from  the  theater  to  the  moment,  and 
never  missed  hearing  the  roll  of  the  cab-wheels,  the 
clatter  of  the  horse's  feet  in  stopping  at  the  pavement. 
By  the  time  that  Winifred  was  half-way  up  the  third 
and  last  flight  of  stairs,  the  door  of  the  flat  was  open, 
and  the  little  mother  smiling  in  the  light  that  streamed 
out  to  gladden  "Winnie's"  eyes. 


48  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

To-night  it  seemed  a  bad  omen  to  the  girl  that 
the  drawing-room  windows  with  their  red  silk  shades 
should  glow  but  faintly,  and  the  door  be  shut.  The 
maid  had  the  latch-key  in  the  tiny  black  bag  which 
contained  her  mistress's  few  bits  of  jewelry,  and  used 
it  for  almost  the  first  time  since  the  flat  had  been 
home  to  the  young  actress. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  TWOS  AND  THREES 

WINIFRED  ran  quickly  in,  leaving  her  maid  to  fasten 
the  door  of  the  flat,  and  it  was  a  great  relief  to  see 
her  mother's  small  thin  figure  appear  at  the  drawing- 
room  door. 

"Winnie,  darling,  I  didn't  know  you'd  come.  I'm 
so  sorry,"  cried  the  voice  that  had  always  been  to 
Winifred  the  sweetest  in  the  world.  "I  heard  a  cab, 
but  it  was  like  a  jingling  hansom.  I  was  sure  it 
wasn't  yours." 

This  explanation  was  enough;  but  the  girl's  sensi- 
tive ears  detected  something  unusual  in  the  tone  — 
a  kind  of  deadness,  as  if  the  joy-notes  had  been  struck 
out  of  it. 

"I  came  in  a  hansom  to-night."  If  Winifred's 
heart  had  not  been  heavy  she  would  have  added  a 
curiosity-piquing  word  about  her  adventure,  but  (except 
for  her  knight-errant,  whose  dark  face  she  had  not 
been  able  to  put  out  of  her  mind  on  the  way  home) 
the  affair  appeared  pitifully  trivial  beside  the  other 
overwhelming  occurrence  of  the  evening.  Of  this 
she  had  meant  to  speak,  telling  her  mother  all  that 
Macaire  had  said  and  all  that  she  had  said  in  answer; 
but  the  change  in  the  dear  voice  frightened  her.  First, 
before  talking  of  herself,  she  must  know  what  had  been 
happening  at  home. 

49 


50  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

She  put  her  arm  round  the  little  woman's  frail 
shoulders  and  drew  her  into  the  drawing-room.  "Are 
you  feeling  worse,  dearest  ? "  she  asked  tenderly, 
her  eyes  on  the  face,  which  was  so  pure  and  trans- 
parent a  pallor  that  it  often  reminded  the  girl  of  alabas- 
ter through  which  light  shone  clearly. 

"Not  quite  so  well  as  sometimes,  perhaps,  but 
nothing  for  you  to  worry  about,"  the  answer  came 
soothingly.  "What  do  you  think  is  in  that  chafing- 
dish  for  you  to-night,  pet  ?  Only  guess ! " 

Winifred's  eyes  turned  to  the  wide  doorway  which 
opened  between  the  small  drawing-room  and  still 
smaller  dining-room.  There,  on  the  table,  stood  the 
smart  silver  chafing-dish  in  which  some  dainty  was 
always  prepared  by  her  mother's  own  hands  for  her 
home-coming.  The  one  servant  was  sent  to  bed 
early,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Gray's  pride  and  pleasure  to 
devise  something  which  might  tempt  the  appetite  of 
the  tired  little  actress  after  the  theater. 

The  lace-edged  tray-cloth,  spread  with  a  few  pretty 
plates  and  bits  of  glass  and  silver,  looked  oddly  pathetic 
to  Winifred  to-night,  and  a  sensation  of  choking 
contracted  her  throat. 

"I  can't  guess,  and  I  can't  eat,  motherkin,"  she 
said,  "until  you  tell  me  what  is  wrong.  There's 
something,  I  know." 

"I  —  couldn't  you  wait  for  all  that  until  you've 
had  your  supper,  dear?"  pleaded  Mrs.  Gray.  "I've 
taken  such  pains  with  it.  It's  sweetbreads,  done  in  a 
new  way.  And  there's  a  steaming  hot  cup  of  choco- 
late —  for  the  night  seemed  so  chilly." 

Winifred  shivered  slightly,  but  not  with  cold. 
Lionel  Macaire  had  made  her  drink  chocolate.  She 


IN  TWOS  AND  THREES  51 

thought  that  she  could  never  bear  to  touch  it  again, 
but  still  less  could  she  grieve  her  mother.  So  she 
took  off  her  hat  and  gloves  and  sat  down  at  the  table, 
trying  to  smile,  praising  the  sweetbreads,  and  reluct- 
antly sipping  the  chocolate,  while  the  weight  of  pre- 
sentiment was  coldly-heavy  on  her  breast.  The  worst 
of  this  night  was  not  over  yet,  something  seemed  to 
whisper  in  her  ear.  She  must  at  least  make  a  pretence 
of  eating  now,  if  she  would  show  appreciation  of  the 
little  mother's  thought  for  her.  By-and-bye  even  that 
pretence  would  be  impossible. 

The  lump  in  her  throat  made  it  hard  to  swallow, 
and  a  mist  of  tears  dimmed  her  eyes,  but  she  would 
not  let  them  fall.  She  and  her  best  loved  one  had 
been  so  happy,  so  merry,  in  this  little  place.  Why 
need  she  feel  that  it  was  all  going  to  end  to-night  ? 
It  was  stupid  to  feel  that  —  yet  the  impression  would 
not  pass. 

When  she  could  make  an  end  of  the  feast  without 
seeming  ungrateful  she  sprang  up  and  pushed  away 
her  chair.  Mrs.  Gray  had  sat  watching  the  girl  with 
great  love  and  a  tireless,  yearning  admiration  in  her 
eyes  as  her  frail  body  leaned  against  the  cushions  in 
a  grandfather  chair  by  the  fireplace.  Though  October 
had  not  come  yet,  there  was  a  glow  of  dying  fire  in  the 
grate  —  just  enough  to  give  an  excuse  for  drawing 
near  it,  and  Winifred  knelt  down  on  the  rug,  with 
her  arms  across  her  mother's  knees. 

"Now,  what  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked,  bravely. 

"  I  wish  I  needn't  tell  you,"  the  elder  woman  answered, 
a  quiver  in  her  voice. 

"You  and  I  have  always  borne  everything  together, 
haven't  we  ?  And  so  we  always  will." 


52  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"Oh,  darling,  there* ve  been  troubles  enough  in 
your  young  life.  I  did  hope  they  were  over.  But 
God  knows  best." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  ? " 

"Since  I  must  —  yes.  It  couldn't  be  kept  from 
you.  Strange,  isn't  it,  love,  how  troubles  come  so 
often  in  twos  and  threes,  not  singly?" 

Winifred  looked  up  into  her  mother's  eyes.  On 
the  surface  of  her  thoughts  swam  the  consciousness 
of  what  had  happened  at  the  theater,  and  the  vague 
fear  of  what  it  might  mean  in  the  future.  This  was 
to  be  a  night  to  remember.  She  longed,  yet  dreaded 
to  have  the  knowledge  that  lay  behind  those  loving 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  LETTER  FROM  SLOANE  STREET 

" IRISH  LIFE*  has  stopped,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  "and 
all  the  money  you  put  into  it  for  poor  Dick  is  lost. 
Nearly  two  hundred  pounds,  dear." 

"Dick"  was  Winifred's  only  brother,  a  year  older 
than  she;  and  Irish  Life  was  a  paper  started  in  Dublin 
early  in  the  summer,  of  which  Dick  Gray  had  been  made 
sub-editor  because  of  the  money  his  sister  had  optimis- 
tically lent  him  for  the  purchase  of  certain  shares. 
It  had  been  put  in  by  degrees,  as  it  could  be  spared 
from  her  salary  of  twelve  pounds  a  week  which  had 
begun  about  the  first  of  March,  and  the  full  amount 
required  had  been  sent  off  only  a  month  ago.  Mean- 
while, for  Dick's  sake,  the  girl  and  her  mother  had  been 
living  with  the  utmost  economy,  and  making  sacrifices 
with  unflagging  cheerfulness,  for  the  prospects  of  the 
new  paper  had  been  represented  as  marvelously  bright, 
and  it  had  certainly  seemed  a  wonderful  chance  for 
Dick,  whose  gifts,  if  any,  were  for  a  journalistic  career. 

Now  the  money  was  gone,  and  poor  Dick  would 
be  "out  of  a  berth,"  as  he  had  dolefully  reminded 
his  mother  in  the  letter  which  told  the  bad  news. 
There  had  been  trickery  somewhere,  for  if  the  paper 
was  in  danger  of  dissolution  the  last  payments  ought 
not  to  have  been  accepted;  but  the  excuses  were  very 
plausible,  and  Dick  did  not  think  that  he  should  be 
able  to  get  a  penny  back  again. 

53 


54  THE  SILEXT  BATTLE 

On  any  other  night  this  blow  would  have  fallen 
with  comparative  lightness  upon  Winifred,  who  had 
all  the  buoyant  hopefulness  of  her  twenty  years;  but 
bravely  as  she  had  flung  back  Lionel  Macaire's  insults, 
his  threats  had  frightened  her.  His  money  and  his 
well-known  interest  in  theatrical  affairs  gave  him 
infinite  power  in  die  world  in  which  she  moved,  and 
though  she  did  not  exactly  see  how  he  could  use  it 
to  hurt  her,  at  all  events  in  the  present,  there  might 
be  ways;  and  the  solid  foundation  which  a  good 
engagement  gave  her  seemed  trembling  under  her 
feet  as  she  reassured  her  mother.  "What's  two  hun- 
dred pounds,  after  all  ?"  she  laughed  brightly.  "  With 
twelve  pounds  coming  in  every  week,  money  soon 
counts  up;  and  I'm  getting  to  know  a  lot  of  newspaper 
men  now,  who  are  very  kind  to  me;  and  perhaps 
through  them  something  will  be  found  for  Dick  in 
London,  which  would  be  better  than  Ireland.  And 
even  though  this  money's  gone,  it's  not  all  wasted, 
for  Dick's  bought  his  experience.  Oh,  while  there's 
nothing  worse  than  this,  dear,  you  mustn't  look  so 
pale  and  heart-broken!" 

"There  is  —  something  else,  Winnie,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Gray.  "  Not  worse  —  oh,  not  worse !  Still,  I'm  a  f r  a  i  d 
it  will  grieve  you  to  hear  it." 

For  a  moment  Winifred  had  forgotten  her  mother's 
hint  that  "trouble  came  in  twos  and  threes."  Her 
heart  grew  cold  again. 

"It's  — only  about  me,"  went  on  the  elder  woman, 
almost  apologetically.  "You  know  you  made  me 
promise  that  Fd  see  a  doctor  about  myself,  and  I  said 
that  I  would  when  I  could  screw  up  my  courage.  I 
wrote  to  Sir  Digby  Field  asking  for  an  appointment, 


A  LETTER  FROM  SLOANE  STREET   55 

and  it  came  for  to-day  at  three  o'clock.  I  was  glad 
that  it  was  Wednesday,  and  matinee  day,  for  then 
you  need  not  know  anything  about  it  till  it  was  over. 
You  were  not  coming  home  to  dinner,  and  I  hoped 
that  when  I  saw  you  at  night  after  the  theater  I  should 
have  something  reassuring  to  tell  you.  But,  darling  — 
I  haven't.  It's  the  other  way." 

"Mother!"  cried  Winifred,  her  face  stricken 
white,  her  voice  sharp  with  fear.  She  wound  her 
arms  tightly  round  the  slender  waist,  holding  the  frail 
little  figure  as  if  with  her  own  young  body  she  would 
defend  it  against  all  harm. 

"  Don't  look  like  that,  darling!"  her  mother  implored. 
"Sir  Digby  didn't  say  I  must  —  die.  He  only  told 
me  that  I  was  in  danger,  and  that,  if  my  life  were  to 
be  saved,  I  must  undergo  a  serious  operation.  Not 
at  once,  but  I  should  not  wait  longer  than  two  or 
three  months.  After  that,  it  might  be  —  too  late." 

"Would  it  be  a  dangerous  operation?"  the  girl 
asked  breathlessly. 

"A  little.  It  must  always  be  so  with  such  things, 
I  fancy.  But  it  is  the  expense  I  am  thinking  of, 
Winnie.  I  didn't  know,  when  I  saw  Sir  Digby,  about 
Irish  Life  and  poor  Dick.  But  when  I  came  home, 
feeling  somewhat  upset,  there  was  the  letter  waiting 
for  me.  It  seemed  almost  too  much." 

Winifred  pressed  her  lips  tightly  together  over 
her  own  secret,  as  if  to  hide  it  under  lock  and  key,  lest 
it  should  betray  itself.  She  had  quite  resolved  now 
that  she  would  say  nothing  to  make  her  mother's 
burden  heavier,  unless  circumstances  forced  her  later 
on  to  speak. 

"Don't    worry    about    the    money,    motherkin.     Jt 


56  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

will  be  all  right  —  you'll  see,"  she  said.  "And  when 
you're  well  again  —  as  you  will  be  soon  —  how  happy 
we  shall  feel." 

"I  asked  Sir  Digby  how  much  it  would  cost," 
sighed  the  little  woman,  "and  he  said  it  wouldn't  be 
safe  to  calculate  upon  less  than  two  hundred  pounds. 
For  I  shall  have  to  be  a  long  time  at  a  nursing  home. 
I  don't  see  how  we  can  manage  it." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Winifred.  "Nothing  easier. 
Money  isn't  what  it  used  to  be  to  us  when  I,  poor 
little  wretch,  thought  I  was  lucky  to  get  three  pounds 
a  week  on  tour." 

"And  you  lived  on  one,  and  sent  two  to  Dick  and  me !" 

"I  never  wanted  more,  dear.  You've  no  idea  how 
passing  rich  a  girl  can  be  on  twenty  shillings  a  week 
touring  in  the  country,  if  she  chums  with  another 
girl,  as  I  did.  Oh,  there  was  plenty  of  fun  in  those 
days.  I  like  to  look  back  on  them!" 

As  she  looked  back  now,  they  seemed  delightfully 
free  from  care.  There  had  been  no  horrible  million- 
aires then,  offering  her  champagne  and  many  other 
things  which  she  could  not  take. 

Somehow  she  comforted  her  mother,  undressing 
her  and  putting  her  to  bed  as  if  she  had  been  a  child 
—  for  Jameson  was  never  permitted  to  sit  up  for  any 
ministrations  after  the  theater.  Mother  and  daughter 
preferred  then  to  help  each  other,  and  have  their 
two  small  connecting  bedrooms  to  themselves. 

But  Winifred  herself  did  not  sleep.  All  the  pent-up 
grief  which  she  had  not  allowed  to  be  seen,  at  thought 
of  the  suffering  and  danger  from  which,  at  best,  she 
could  not  save  her  adored  mother,  broke  over  her  in 
a  wave.  She  buried  her  burning  face  in  the  pillow, 


57 

quivering  as  if  under  the  strokes  of  a  lash,  though  no 
tears  came.  Whatever  happened,  she  must  have 
money.  There  must  be  something  for  poor  Dick, 
who  seemed  always  so  unlucky,  even  when  hopes 
had  been  highest;  and  above  all,  the  little  mother 
must  be  cared  for  as  if  she  were  a  queen.  Nothing 
must  be  lacking  —  nothing. 

Usually,  when  Winifred  went  to  bed,  she  had 
only  to  close  her  eyelids  to  fall  asleep,  not  to  wake 
until  Jameson  knocked  in  the  morning  and  threw 
back  the  heavily-lined  blue  curtains  that  kept  the 
early  light  from  pouring  in  at  the  open  window.  But 
to-night  she  lay  listening  feverishly  to  the  quarter- 
hours  as  they  were  solemnly  struck  by  St.  Mary's 
church  clock,  wondering  if  she  would  still  be  awake 
to  hear  the  next. 

She  invariably  did  hear  the  next,  and  the  next. 
And  so  the  morning  came.  Her  habit  was  not  to 
rise  till  nine,  as  it  was  well,  her  mother  said,  for  young 
people  who  worked  hard  to  have  plenty  of  sleep. 
When  it  was  half-past  seven,  however,  she  could  bear 
to  lie  in  bed  no  longer,  and  she  had  bathed  and  dressed 
without  waking  her  mother  in  the  next  room,  before 
it  was  time  for  the  maid  to  come  to  her  door. 

Already  the  letters  had  arrived,  and  were  waiting 
on  a  table  in  the  drawing-room  until  it  should  be 
time  for  Jameson  to  carry  them  to  Mrs.  Gray  and  her 
daughter.  On  top  was  an  envelope  addressed  in 
Mr.  Anderson's  handwriting,  and  the  girl's  heart 
gave  a  leap  as  she  caught  sight  of  it. 

He  had  written  to  her  on  several  occasions,  about 
the  time  when  her  engagement  in  his  company  was 
pending,  but  never  since. 


58  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

She  took  up  the  letter  with  a  hand  that  was  not  quite 
steady,  and  saw  from  the  smart  crest  and  monogram 
on  the  envelope  that  it  was  the  paper  which  he  used 
at  home.  He  must  have  written  to  her  immediately 
on  arriving  at  his  house  in  Sloane  Street,  after  the 
theater  last  night. 

A  vision  of  him  leaving  the  stage  entrance  with 
Lionel  Macaire,  and  driving  away  in  the  latter's 
carriage,  when  both  had  bowed  with  elaborate  for- 
mality to  her,  flashed  into  her  head.  Had  the  million- 
aire's revenge  already  begun  by  prejudicing  the  mana- 
ger's mind  against  her  ?  Surely  Mr.  Anderson  would 

not  be  so  unfair  as  to But  she  would  not  wait 

to  finish  the  question.  She  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"Dear  Miss  Gray,"  said  the  actor-manager,  "will 
you  come  to  the  theater  to-morrow  (Thursday)  morn- 
ing, and  ask  for  me  half  an  hour  before  the  time  for 
rehearsal  ? --Yours  truly,  George  Anderson." 

There  was  nothing  very  alarming  on  the  surface  of 
this  brief  note,  with  the  request  which  might  have 
been  made  for  one  out  of  a  dozen  harmless  reasons. 
But  instinct  that  had  brought  the  dark  cloud  of  brood- 
ing presentiment  last  night,  spoke  again  gloomily. 

The  rehearsals  for  As  You  Like  It,  which  had 
begun  about  a  week  ago,  were  called  for  "eleven 
sharp"  every  day.  Therefore  the  appointment  which 
Mr.  Anderson  wished  Winifred  to  keep  was  at  half- 
past  ten. 

They  had  sat  talking  together,  the  girl  and  her 
mother,  later  than  usual,  and  Mrs.  Gray,  who  often 
suffered  at  night  and  was  a  restless  sleeper,  was  mak- 
ing up  this  morning  for  the  hours  she  had  lost.  Wini- 
fred never  allowed  her  to  be  called  until  she  waked 


A  LETTER  FROM  SLOANE  STREET   59 

of  her  own  accord,  and  though  this  was  generally 
early,  to-day  Winifred  had  her  breakfast  and  went 
away  without  seeing  her  mother.  She  left  a  short  note 
full  of  love,  saying  only  that  she  was  obliged  to  go  down 
to  the  theater  half  an  hour  earlier  than  she  had  expected. 

When  the  girl  had  first  called  upon  Mr.  Anderson 
at  his  request,  a  little  unknown  actress  from  the  prov- 
inces, she  had  felt  almost  sick  with  excitement  lest 
something  should  go  wrong  at  the  last,  and  she  should 
lose  the  glorious  chance  she  had  been  led  to  expect. 
She  remembered  that  day  and  its  sensations  with  pain- 
ful distinctness  this  morning,  but  now  her  emotion 
was  even  more  keen  than  it  had  been  then. 

The  actor-manager  had  an  "office"  at  the  theater, 
where  he  imagined  that  he  transacted  a  great  deal 
of  business,  and  did  indeed  spend  some  hours  out  of 
most  days  in  the  week.  Winifred  knew  that  she 
would  be  received  there;  and,  when  she  had  sent  up 
word  that  she  had  arrived  and  would  wait  Mr.  Ander- 
son's convenience,  she  furtively  pinched  her  cheeks 
to  counteract  the  pallor  she  had  seen  in  passing  a 
mirror.  Whatever  might  be  in  store  for  her,  she 
did  not  wish  to  betray  the  fact  that  she  was  frightened. 

In  five  or  ten  minutes  Mr.  Anderson's  young  secre- 
tary came  to  fetch  Miss  Gray  to  the  office,  and  at 
the  •  door  of  that  room  he  disappeared.  The  inter- 
view was  to  be  a  strictly  private  one. 

The  actor-manager  sat  at  his  desk,  glancing  over 
the  correspondence  which  his  secretary  had  placed 
ready  for  him.  As  Winifred  was  announced,  he  rose 
slowly,  looking  formidably  large  and  impressive.  His 
eyes  were  as  dreamy  as  ever,  but  it  seemed  to  the  girl  - 
or  she  imagined  it  —  that  they  were  slightly  restless, 


60  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

not  willing  to  meet  and  dwell  upon  hers  with  the 
caressing,  lingering  gaze  which  was  a  characteristic 
of  his  in  greeting  a  pretty  woman.  For  once  he 
appeared  ill  at  ease;  his  voice  betrayed  a  certain  agita- 
tion, as  the  voice  of  a  sensitive  or  cowardly  person 
will  when  something  disagreeable  has  to  be  done. 

He  gave  Winifred  a  chair,  and  sat  down  again 
himself,  looking  at  a  curious  ring  he  wore,  and  talk- 
ing about  the  weather. 

"Yes,  very  cold,"  the  girl  assented,  and  then  felt 
that  further  beating  about  the  bush  would  be  so 
intolerable  that  she  must  scream  aloud  instead  of 
converse  if  she  were  forced  to  endure  it.  "  You  sent 
for  me  Mr.  Anderson,"  she  said,  "and  here  I  am." 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  you,"  he  echoed.  "The  fact  is, 
I've  been  thinking  for  several  days  since  rehearsals 
began  that — er — that  the  part  of  Celia  is  hardly  suited 
to  you.  Your  method  is  —  er  —  rather  too  spirited." 

Could  it  be  possible,  Winifred  quickly  asked  her- 
self, that  he  was  about  to  tell  her  of  Mrs.  Peter 
Carlton's  intended  departure,  and  offer  her  the  part 
of  Rosalind,  as  Mr.  Macaire  had  suggested,  in  spite 
of  the  thing  that  had  happened  last  night  ? 

"I  always  was  a  bad  rehearser,"  she  said.  "I 
know  that's  an  amateurish  excuse,  and  I  do  try, 
but " 

"I'm  afraid  that  you'll  never  play  Celia  in  a  way 

to  —  do  yourself  justice,"  Anderson  continued.     "It 

— really,  you   know,   Miss   Gray,  you'd   do  yourself 

harm  by  playing  it,  after  the  hit  you've  made  as  Lady 

Kitty  in  The  Green  Sunbonnet." 

Winifred's  lips  began  to  feel  oddly  dry.  She  strove 
to  speak  naturally,  but  her  voice  sounded  strained 


A  LETTER  FROM  SLOANE  STREET   61 

as  she  answered  —  for  she  knew  now  what  was  coming 
"I'm  sorry  that  you  think  so,  Mr.  Anderson." 
"  I'm  sorry,  too  —  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you," 
he  responded  emphatically.  There  was  sincerity  in 
his  accents,  and  Winifred  could  see  in  the  man's 
handsome  face  that  he  was  actually  unhappy  and 
miserably  ashamed  of  himself.  She  could  read  his 
mind  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  he  hated  what  he 
was  doing,  and  that  he  was  acting  under  strong  com- 
pulsion. He  must  be  in  sad  financial  straits,  she 
felt,  to  submit  to  such  a  humiliating  yoke,  for  he  had 
the  reputation  among  theatrical  folk  of  being  an 
honorable  man.  Stunned  as  she  was  by  the  thought 
of  the  blow  about  to  be  dealt  the  girl  found  a  cer- 
tain sympathy  in  her  heart  for  the  executioner. 

"I'm  sorry  on  your  account,  and  sorry  on  my  own," 
he  finished. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  give  up  the  part,  Mr.  Ander- 
son ?"  she  asked  bluntly. 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  all  our  sakes,  much 
as  I  dislike  saying  so.  Our  contract  stipulates  for 
two  weeks'  notice  on  either  side,  you  know,  Miss 
Gray"  (he  gazed  out  of  the  window  as  he  spoke), 
"but  the  present  circumstances  are  — rather  peculiar. 
If  you  —  er  —  gave  up  the  part  it  would  be  impossible 
for  you  to  go  on  with  rehearsals.  And  so,  if  agree- 
able to  you,  you  need  not  attend,  though,  of  course, 
you  would  continue  to  draw  your  present  salary  for 
another  fortnight." 

Now  at  last  the  murder  was  out.  Winifred  won- 
dered at  her  own  coolness,  for  this  came  near  being 
a  death  blow  to  her.  She  seemed  to  be  numb,  with- 
out feeling;  suddenly  she  cared  no  more  than  if  this 


62  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

were  happening  to  a  girl  she  hardly  knew.  Her 
impulse  would  have  been  to  refuse  the  salary  —  to  say 
that  she  would  not  take  what  she  had  not  earned, 
and  that  she  would  consider  her  engagement  termi- 
nated from  this  moment.  But,  with  the  pressing 
knowledge  of  her  mother's  needs,  she  could  not  afford 
to  indulge  her  hurt  pride. 

"I  —  don't  quite  understand,  Mr.  Anderson,"  she 
said  in  a  strained  voice  which  seemed  to  come  from 
some  one  else.  "Who's  to  play  Lady  Kitty  if — I  am 
discharged  ?" 

"Don't  talk  about  being  discharged,  my  dear 
child!"  exclaimed  the  actor-manager.  "Of  course 
you  can  go  on  playing  Lady  Kitty,  if  you  really  prefer, 
but  I  thought,  as  there  might  be  gossip  in  the  theater 
about  the  part  of  Celia  being  rehearsed  by  some  one 
else,  it  would  be  pleasanter  for  you  to  be  out  of  it  alto- 
gether. Your  understudy,  Miss  Cotter,  could  get 
through  Kitty  very  decently,  I  dare  say.  And  she's 
quite  good  enough  for  Celia,  poor  girl." 

Winifred  sat  still,  thinking  earnestly  for  a  moment. 
Lionel  Macaire  had  kept  his  word,  and  had  lost  not 
a  moment  in  setting  about  it.  There  was  no  shadow 
of  doubt  that  she  owed  this  blow  to  him,  though  by 
what  threats  or  what  bribes  he  had  made  George 
Anderson  his  catspaw  she  could  not  tell.  The  mil- 
lionaire had  punished  her,  and  if  she  took  Mr.  Ander- 
son at  his  word  and  played  Lady  Kitty  during  the 
next  fortnight  he  would  surely  cause  her  to  regret 
it,  either  by  forcing  himself  upon  her  at  the  theater 
or  by  some  other  method  which  she  could  not  foresee. 

Now  that  this  terrible  slight  had  been  put  upon 
her  by  the  manager  there  would  be  nothing  save 


A  LETTER  FROM  SLOANE  STREET   63 

humiliation  for  her  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's,  where 
she  had  been  so  happy;  there  was  nothing  more  for 
her  in  the  engagement  which  had  brought  her  such 
joy,  except  to  take  the  remaining  money  that  was  due, 
and  retire  with  what  grace  she  could. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Anderson,"  she  said  dully.  "I 
do  think  I  am  being  hardly  treated,  but  I  know  very 
well  there's  no  object  to  be  gained  by  saying  so,  except 
a  little  rather  bitter  satisfaction  to  myself,  perhaps. 
I  must  accept  the  salary  for  the  remaining  fortnight, 
though  I  wish  very  much  I  need  not " 

"  Please  —  please  don't  make  this  any  harder  for 
me  than  it  is  already,"  pleaded  Anderson,  rising 
hastily,  that  the  disagreeable  interview  might  the 
sooner  come  to  an  end.  "Celia's  really  not  good 
enough  for  you,  my  dear  Miss  Gray.  You  can  do 
better  for  yourself  —  much  better." 

Winifred  took  the  hint,  and  rose  from  her  chair 
also.  "It  will  be  difficult  to  do  anything  at  all  so 
late  in  the  year,"  she  said  with  some  bitterness,  "espe- 
cially when  it  is  known  that  I've  been  discharged  from 
the  Duke  of  Clarence's." 

"That  word  again!"  ejaculated  Anderson,  begin- 
ning to  be  irritable  in  the  midst  of  his  remorse.  "  No 
such  thing  will  be  known.  You  have  been  taken 
suddenly  ill  —  or  family  trouble  has  forced  you  to 
give  up  acting  for  the  present  —  which  you  please. 
You've  only  to  choose,  and  I'll  have  the  same  story 
for  all  reporters  or  anyone  who  applies  to  the  theater 
for  information." 

"Family  trouble!"  The  words  stung  Winifred  like 
nettles.  There  was  truth  enough  for  such  an  excuse; 
nevertheless,  she  would  not  make  it.  "I  think  I 


64  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

should  prefer,"  she  said,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eyes,  "that  the  real  truth  should  be  told/' 

He  flushed  under  her  look,  and  dropped  the  long 
lashes  of  which  he  was  as  proud  as  if  he  had  been  a 
professional  beauty.  "At  least,  Miss  Gray,"  he 
retorted  sharply,  "I  have  spared  your  feelings  as 
much  as  possible.  I  have  seen  you  myself,  I  have 
talked  with  you  as  one  friend  talks  to  another,  and " 

A  sudden  knock  at  the  door  seemed  to  strike  the 
next  word  from  his  mind.  There  was  distress  in  his 
handsome  face  as  he  said  "Come  in!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

"IS   THE   GENTLEMAN   ANONYMOUS?" 

SOMETHING  told  Winifred  that  it  was  Macaire  who 
stood  outside  the  door,  demanding  admittance,  so 
that  when  he  entered  he  had  not,  at  all  events, 
the  satisfaction  of  surprising  her.  He  knew  that 
George  Anderson  had  sent  for  the  girl,  and  the  hour  of 
the  appointment;  probably  he  had  been  with  the  actor- 
manager  when  the  letter  was  written,  and  he  had 
come  purely  for  the  pleasure  of  beholding  the  destruc- 
tion he  had  wrought. 

But  at  the  sight  of  the  hideous  red  face  and  the 
pale  eyes  which,  though  the  sneering  lips  were  silent, 
said  to  hers,  "I  warned  you  what  you  had  to  expect, 
and  I  have  kept  my  word,"  Winifred's  spirit  rose. 

A  bright  color  sprang  to  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes 
were  like  stars.  Never  had  she  been  more  beautiful. 
She  had  faced  the  door  as  Lionel  Macaire  opened  it, 
and  she  made  the  one  glance  she  gave  tell  him  it 
had  been  given  merely  because  it  was  unavoidable. 

"Good-morning  and  good-by,  Mr.  Anderson,"  she 
said,  her  head  held  high,  and  a  proud  smile  on  her 
lips.  Then,  drawing  her  dress  aside  that  it  might 
not  be  desecrated  by  touching  the  millionaire,  she 
swept  by  him  without  a  look. 

"By  Jove!"  she  thought  she  heard  George  Ander- 
son say,  as  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

65 


66  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

As  she  went  down  the  stairs  from  the  office  the 
blood  throbbing  in  her  forehead  seemed  to  blind  her 
eyes  with  a  reddish  tint.  Hardly  knowing  what  she 
did  she  found  her  way  through  labyrinths  of  passages 
to  the  region  of  the  dressing-rooms,  and  shut  herself 
into  her  own.  There  she  half  fell  upon  the  little  wicker 
sofa,  where  she  had  nestled  so  cosily  many  a  time. 
She  had  loved  the  very  smell  of  this  theater  —  the  queer, 
indefinable  odor  made  up  of  gas  and  mustiness,  which 
is  like  nothing  in  the  world  outside  a  theater,  or  even 
farther  in  front  than  "behind  the  scenes";  and  to  her 
the  Duke  of  Clarence's  had  seemed  to  have  an  individu- 
ality of  its  own.  She  would  have  known  she  was  there, 
and  nowhere  else,  if  she  had  been  led  blindfold;  and 
she  would  carry  away  the  remembrance  with  her, 
though  after  to-day  she  would  never  come  into  the 
place  again. 

Her  big  dress-basket  stood  against  the  wall,  and 
presently  she  began  putting  things  together,  and 
packing  them  into  it.  Jameson  could  have  been  sent 
to  do  this  work,  but  somehow  she  felt  that  she  could 
leave  it  to  no  one  else's  hands.  There  was  a  separate 
memory  in  everything  she  touched,  and  she  laid  all 
in  the  basket  now  with  a  sad  tenderness.  It  would 
be  hard  to  look  at  these  things  after  this.  She  won- 
dered what  theater  they  would  be  carried  into  next, 
and  so  wondering  her  heart  grew  very  cold.  How 
should  she  tell  her  mother  of  what  had  happened  — 
the  poor  little  mother,  who  ought  to  be  petted  and 
cheered  and  given  all  she  wished  for,  instead  of 
being  buffeted  by  higher  waves  in  the  deep  sea  of 
trouble  ? 

When  everything  was  ready  to  be  sent  for  Win- 


"IS  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?"  67 

ifred  took  one  last  look  at  the  room  and  turned  away. 
In  going  out  she  had  to  pass  a  door  which  led  to  the 
stage,  and  the  voices  of  people  rehearsing  came  to 
her  ears.  "Miss  Cotter,  down  right,  quick  as  you 
can,  here!"  she  heard  the  stage  manager  shout. 

The  blood  rushed  up  to  Winifred  Gray's  face,  for 
Miss  Cotter  was  her  understudy  —  a  pretty  girl  of 
no  particular  talent,  recruited  from  "society."  Win- 
ifred knew  exactly  what  scene  they  were  working  at, 
and  she  hurried  past  the  door,  only  anxious  to  meet 
no  one. 

She  was  fortunate  in  this,  for  everybody  was  on 
the  stage,  and  she  had  only  to  face  the  doorkeeper 
in  his  little  room. 

"Off  again,  Miss?"  he  remarked  in  his  privileged 
way.  "  Hope  you  ain't  ill  ?  You're  not  looking 
quite  yourself." 

"A  little  headache,"  the  girl  answered  truthfully. 
"Good-by,  Hansey."  And  then  she  hurried  on, 
leaving  him  to  suppose  that  she  had  been  excused 
from  rehearsing  on  account  of  indisposition.  He 
and  all  the  others,  down  to  the  supers  and  stage- 
hands, would  know  the  real  facts  —  or,  at  least,  the 
facts  as  Mr.  Anderson  intended  them  to  be  repre- 
sented —  soon  enough. 

As  Winifred  left  the  theater  she  felt  that  her  next 
thought  must  be  to  find  another  engagement  as  speedily 
as  possible,  for  the  need  of  money  was  too  urgent 
to  admit  of  an  hour's  delay  in  seeking  for  something 
to  do.  Her  mother,  who  believed  that  she  had  gone 
to  rehearsal  as  usual,  only  starting  a  little  earlier, 
would  not  expect  her  home  again  until  four  o'clock, 
for  on  days  when  there  were  rehearsals  and  no  matinees 


68  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Winifred  lunched  near  the  theater  at  two  or  half- 
past,  when  the  long  business  of  rehearsing  was  over. 

Now  it  was  not  yet  twelve  o'clock,  and  she  would 
have  plenty  of  time  for  visiting  agents  before  she 
need  go  home.  If  only  she  could  hear  of  an  engage- 
ment, the  story  which  must  be  told  to  Mrs.  Gray 
would  not  be  quite  so  hopeless. 

In  Winifred's  present  circumstances  it  was  a  hard 
ordeal  to  go  and  interview  dramatic  agents.  By 
this  time  her  name  and  face  were  very  well  known 
in  London.  She  had  made  an  immense  "hit,"  for 
which  she  had  her  charming  personality  and  her 
extreme  girlishness  to  thank,  even  more  than  her  talent, 
perhaps,  and  earlier  in  the  season  she  would  have 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  "shop" — as  theatrical 
slang  has  it.  Many  managers  would  have  been 
only  too  glad  to  have  such  an  addition  to  their  com- 
panies, for  Winifred  had  proved  an  actual  attraction 
in  herself  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's.  But  now  almost 
everything  worth  taking  would  be  gone,  and  there 
was  scarcely  a  chance  that  she  would  have  luck. 
Besides,  she  must  not  forget  that  she  had  made  a 
powerful  enemy. 

However,  Winifred  had  a  great  deal  of  moral  courage 
and,  thinking  of  her  mother,  she  screwed  it  to  the 
sticking  place,  only  hoping  that  she  might  not  be  child- 
ish enough  to  blush  and  look  self-conscious  when  she 
was  questioned  as  to  why  she  had  so  suddenly  left 
Mr.  Anderson. 

She  had  had  two  years  of  provincial  experience, 
but  she  had  begun  in  a  school  directed  by  an  actor 
who  took  his  most  promising  pupils  on  tour,  there- 
fore she  had  never  had  to  do  with  agents.  She  knew, 


"IS  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?"  69 

nevertheless,  where  they  were  to  be  sought,  and  turn- 
ing into  a  street  off  the  Strand,  she  soon  found  the 
name  of  the  man  most  believed  in  by  the  profession. 

There  were  superficially  jaunty,  anxious-eyed  young 
men  going  up  and  down  the  stairway  that  led  to  the 
office,  and  there  were  preternaturally  yellow-haired 
young  women,  who  stared  at  Winifred  as  she  passed, 
with  eager  jealousy,  wondering  if  the  luck  which  had 
failed  them  was  for  her.  Some  of  them  recognized 
her  face,  and  these  were  more  jealous  and  eager  than 
the  others,  though  one  and  all  painfully  pretended 
indifference. 

Mr.  Fitzjohn  Doulton  had  an  outer  and  an  inner 
office,  and  favored  indeed  were  the  applicants  who 
ever  reached  the  latter. 

Everyone  knew  that  there  was  a  private  exit  from 
this  sanctum  sanctorum,  and  that  Mr.  Doulton  had  a 
way  of  disappearing  while  the  outer  room  was  crowded 
by  those  who  had  waited  for  hours  in  the  hope  of  seeing 
him.  This  was  the  reason  why  so  many  men  and 
maidens  haunted  the  stairs,  that  —  while  appearing  just 
to  have  come,  or  just  to  be  going,  stopping  for  a  chat 
with  an  old  friend,  perhaps  —  they  might  be  ready  to 
dart  upon  their  prey  before  he  could  manage  to  escape. 

Winifred  did  not  know  these  secrets  of  the  prison- 
house,  however,  and  she  walked  with  shy  slowness 
into  the  outer  office,  the  dreaded  blush  coming  as  a 
broadside  of  stares  was  directed  at  her. 

The  room  was  packed  with  actors  and  actresses 
who  were  "resting"  and  yearned  to  rest  no  more; 
and  the  walls  were  covered  with  photographs  of  other 
actors  and  actresses  who  hoped,  no  doubt,  that  their 
faces  or  figures  might  strike  visiting  managers  as  suit- 


70  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

able  to  their  requirements.  Almost  all  the  portraits 
were  autographed,  and  it  was  a  tribute  to  Mr.  Fitzjohn 
Doulton's  benevolent  talent  that  so  many  professional 
people  were  "his  gratefully"  and  his  with  the  "kindest 
remembrances." 

The  occupants  of  this  room  were  not  of  the  theatrical 
haut  monde,  with  which  Winifred  had  been  associated 
since  joining  Mr.  Anderson's  company.  They  were 
more  of  the  sort  she  had  known  on  tour,  but  there 
were  no  familiar  faces,  and  she  was  thankful  for  that, 
as  she  was  in  no  mood  for  greetings  or  questionings 
from  acquaintances. 

At  intervals  a  youth  threw  open  the  door  which 
led  to  Mr.  Doulton's  inner  office,  calling  a  name;  and 
then,  with  an  air  of  importance  which  might  almost 
have  been  a  lever  to  move  the  world,  a  man  or  woman 
rose,  moved  across  the  room,  followed  by  envious 
eyes,  and  was  shut  out  of  sight  into  the  place  where 
all  fain  would  be. 

Winifred  thought  it  very  likely  that,  if  she  chose 
to  say  "  I  am  Miss  Gray,  from  the  Duke  of  Clarence's," 
the  golden  scepter  would  be  held  forth  to  her  without  the 
tedious  necessity  of  waiting  for  her  turn;  but  she  would 
not  do  this.  It  was  not  fair  that  she  should  be  pre- 
ferred before  people  who  had  waited  for  hours,  perhaps. 
So  she  sat  outwardly  quiet,  raging  within,  as  she  men- 
tally reviewed  her  scene  with  George  Anderson,  until 
at  last  the  self-sufficient  youth  announced  that  Mr. 
Doulton  had  been  called  away  on  business,  and  would 
not  be  back.  "There  was  no  good  any  ladies  and 
gentlemen  waitin'  longer." 

With  grumblings  the  disappointed  ones  rose  and 
made  for  the  door.  It  was  always  like  this,  they 


"IS  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?"  71 

complained.  There  was  very  little  good  coming  unless 
you  had  an  appointment,  and  even  then  you  weren't 
always  sure  of  Mr.  Doulton — he  was  "so  erratic." 

Winifred  went  with  the  rest,  and  among  them  all 
there  could  scarcely  have  been  a  heavier  heart  than 
hers.  It  would  be  hopeless  to  call  upon  another  agent 
until  afternoon,  for  she  had  been  here  an  hour,  and 
it  was  now  luncheon  time  for  most  business  men. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  particular  about  the  places  where 
her  pretty  daughter  lunched  alone,  and  Winifred 
had  frequented  a  daintily  decorated  establishment 
in  Bond  street,  where  charming  girls  in  purple  frocks, 
with  frothy  muslin  aprons,  smiled  upon  customers 
against  a  background  of  dull  green  wall  and  old  blue 
Delft  china.  But  there  were  to  be  no  more  Bond 
street  feasts  for  her  at  present.  She  gloomily  ate 
a  bath  bun  at  an  A.  B.  C.  shop,  and  went  to  another 
agent's.  Here  she  was  more  fortunate.  Mr.  Brown- 
wood  was  in,  and  only  a  few  persons  were  before  her. 
In  half  an  hour  she  was  with  him,  and  had  introduced 
herself.  He  was  polite,  had  seen  her  act,  and  would 
be  pleased  to  serve  her;  but  there  was  nothing  — 
"really  nothing  doing."  If  only  she  had  come  to  him 
two  months  ago  it  would  have  been  a  different  story. 
He  feared  that  she  would  hear  the  same  thing  every- 
where. Still  she  might  look  in  from  time  to  time, 
and  certainly  he  would  keep  her  in  mind. 

"By  the  way,  rather  a  queer  thing,"  he  remarked, 
as  the  girl  rose  to  go.  "  I  was  —  er  —  informed  that 
you  would  come  to  me  to-day." 

Winifred  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "How  very 
strange!"  she  exclaimed.  "Will  you  tell  me  who 
'informed'  you  ?" 


72  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Mr.  Brownwood  smiled.  "That's  exactly  what  I 
don't  know.  The  fact  is,  it  was  an  anonymous  letter. 
I  attached  no  importance  to  it,  and  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  thing  until  you  came  in." 

Winifred  was  scarlet.  "  Please  tell  me  what  the 
letter  said.  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  know  that.  I 
—  should  like  to  see  it." 

"I'm  afraid  it  went  into  the  waste-paper  basket  - 
the  best  place  for  such  things,"  he  replied.  "  But  I 
can  remember  almost  the  exact  words;  they  weren't 
many.  Let  me  see.  'If  Miss  Winifred  Gray  calls 
upon  you  wishing  for  an  engagement,  ask  her  why 
she  was  discharged  from  the  Duke  of  Clarence's.' ' 

"You  haven't  asked  me!"  broke  in  the  girl. 

"Of  course  not.  I  don't  suppose  for  a  moment 
you  were  discharged.  Some  jealous,  malicious  worn- 
an " 

"I  was  discharged,"  Winifred  stammered.     "Every- 
one will   know  it,   and  — I   know  who  sent  you  the 
letter.     But  -     '   and   she   paused   for   a   moment  - 
"I  can't  tell  anybody.     It  would  only  do  me  harm, 
and  the  person  who  wrote  it  counts  upon  that." 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  it  if  I  were  you,"  said  the 
agent.  "  I  oughtn't  to  have  mentioned  it  —  but  I 
spoke  out  impulsively.  Well,  good  day.  Come  and 
see  me  again." 

Winifred  scarcely  knew  how  she  got  downstairs 
and  into  the  street.  She  was  as  sure  as  if  she  had 
been  told  that  the  same  letter  which  Mr.  Brownwood 
had  received  or  one  like  it  had  been  sent  to  every 
respectable  agent,  and  every  manager  in  London. 
So  gossip  would  be  born  and  grow  apace.  And  then, 
when  the  question  was  going  the  rounds:  "Why 


"IS  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?"  73 

did  Mr.  Anderson  discharge  Miss  Gray?'*  some 
horrible  answer  would  be  ready  to  meet  and  blend 
with  it  in  a  hateful  marriage. 

Still,  she  would  not  go  home,  discouraged,  to  bewail 
herself  in  idleness.  She  went  to  such  other  agents 
as  might  possibly  help  her,  but,  as  Mr.  Brownwood 
had  said,  there  was  "nothing  doing."  One  asked 
her  bluntly  why  she  had  left  the  Duke  of  Clarence's; 
another  hinted  at  his  desire  to  know.  They  had  had 
the  letters. 

v  Now  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  call  upon 
managers,  telling  them  —  if  they  still  needed  the 
information  —  that  she  was  at  liberty.  So  she  went 
from  theater  to  theater,  but  found  no  one.  She  must 
write  and  ask  for  an  appointment  if  she  wished  to 
succeed,  she  was  told. 

At  last,  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  but  go  back 
tired  out,  and  break  the  news  to  her  mother. 

As  it  happened,  this  was  their  "at  home"  day, 
and  if  all  had  been  well  Winifred  would  have  hur- 
ried in  after  rehearsal  and  her  late  lunch  to  dress  and 
help  receive  some  of  the  friends  they  had  made  since 
coming  to  live  in  London.  But  now  she  had  forgotten 
all  about  it,  and  did  not  remember  until  she  was  fitting 
her  latch-key  into  the  door  that  she  could  not  expect 
to  find  her  mother  alone,  for  already  it  was  close  upon 
five  o'clock. 

As  she  stepped  into  the  passage  a  buzz  of  feminine 
voices  greeted  her,  with  a  deeper  undertone  which 
told  that  women  were  not  the  only  visitors.  For 
a  moment  the  girl  hesitated,  for  it  seemed  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear  to  meet  people  and  smile 
and  chat  as  if  she  had  not  a  care  in  the  world. 


74  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Calling  up  all  her  courage,  however,  she  walked 
straight  into  the  drawing-room  without  stopping  even 
to  take  off  her  hat.  These  Thursdays  were  popular, 
because  non-theatrical  people  thought  it  rather  nice 
to  see  the  pretty  actress  off  the  stage  and  in  her  own 
home,  while  the  few  professionals  who  came  really 
liked  the  girl  and  her  mother.  But  never  had  Win- 
ifred seen  the  room  so  crowded  as  it  was  to-day,  and 
her  heart  gave  a  bound  as  she  saw  that  several  mem- 
bers of  Mr.  Anderson's  company  were  there. 

Once  glance  she  gave  round  the  room,  and  then 
her  eyes  turned  to  Mrs.  Gray.  The  little  woman's 
face  was  white  and  drawn,  despite  the  smile  that  it  wore, 
and  the  gaze  with  which  she  met  her  daughter's  was 
piteous  as  that  of  some  trapped,  dying  creature  of 
the  woods.  It  was  all  that  Winifred  could  do  to 
restrain  herself  from  running  to  her  mother  oblivious 
of  everyone,  and  begging  her  to  say  what  had  caused 
that  look  of  agonized  distress.  For  the  girl  knew 
the  elder  woman  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  physical 
pain  and  fatigue  alone  would  not  account  for  it. 

But  there  was  an  appeal  in  the  great,  soft  eyes, 
which  seemed  too  large  for  the  small  pale  face,  with 
its  frame  of  whitening  hair.  They  begged  Winifred 
to  act  as  if  nothing  were  wrong,  to  go  on  to  the  end 
bravely,  as  her  mother  meant  to  do. 

"We  were  just  wondering  what  had  become  of 
you,  dear,"  remarked  Miss  Duplessis,  the  lady  who 
played  queenly  dowagers  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's. 
"Mrs.  Gray  says  she  has  never  known  you  to  leave 
her  in  the  lurch  before.  And  that  it  should  happen 
to-day,  too,  when  you  are  the  sensation  of  the  hour, 
and  we  were  all  dying  to  gaze  upon  you,  to  see  if 


"IS  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?"  75 

you're  changed!  It  was  really  too  bad  of  you  to 
keep  us  in  suspense  so  long." 

"Oh,  please,  Miss  Duplessis!"  half  whispered 
Mrs.  Gray,  who  sat  near  the  handsome  middle-aged 
actress;  "please  let  us  not  raise  the  subject  again 
now.  By  the  way,  Winnie"  —in  a  louder  voice, 
which  strove  to  be  playful  -  "we  have  been  laughing 
over  a  competition  in  a  penny  weekly  paper  as  to 
who  is  the  most  popular  actress  on  the  stage.  We 
never  even  heard  of  the  paper,  I'm  afraid,  much  less 
the  competition;  but  it  seems  you've  won  the  prize. 
A  pair  of  earrings.  What  a  pity  you  don't  wear 
them!" 

So  the  evil  moment  was  tided  over.  But  never 
had  time  dragged  with  such  terrible  slowness  for 
Winifred.  She  talked  of  one  thing  and  thought  of 
another.  Grim  fancies  were  in  her  mind.  She 
imagined  herself  trying  to  borrow  money  of  these 
people  —  these,  who  called  themselves  her  friends, 
and  who  came  in  crowds  to-day  because  they  had  heard 
something  about  her  —  she  would  not  know  what  till 
they  were  out  of  the  house.  Was  there  one  who 
would  make  a  sacrifice  to  help  her  and  her  mother  ? 
Her  eyes  traveled  from  face  to  face,  and  she  saw  not 
one  man  or  woman  to  whom  she  would  choose  to  go 
if  she  were  starving.  They  all  looked  sleek  and  well- 
fed,  and  they  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  wonder  in 
fear  and  misery  how  future  necessities  were  to  be  sup- 
plied. They  were  only  acquaintances,  not  friends. 
She  told  herself  bitterly  that  she  and  her  mother  had 
no  friends. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    LETTERS 

IT  was  half-past  six  when  the  last  rustle  of  the  last 
smart  gown  was  heard  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
Grays'  little  flat.  Winifred  murmured,  "Thank 
Heaven,"  when  she  had  smiled  her  last  smile,  and 
could  fly  back  from  the  door,  to  which  she  had  escorted 
a  gossiping  old  lady. 

"Mother,  dear,  what  is  this  dreadful  bugbear  that 
somebody's  been  frightening  you  with?"  she  had 
begun,  when  the  stillness  of  the  small  figure  reclining 
with  closed  eyes  on  the  sofa  struck  at  her  heart.  She 
left  her  question  unfinished  and  moved  swiftly,  breath- 
lessly, from  the  door  to  the  lounge.  The  strain  endured 
for  hours  had  been  too  much  for  Mrs.  Gray,  and  she 
had  fainted. 

It  was  not  until  her  forehead  and  hands  had  been 
bathed  with  eau-de-cologne  and  smelling-salts  held 
to  her  nostrils  that  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  many 
minutes  passed  before  she  was  able  to  speak.  But 
her  first  words  were:  "Oh,  Winnie,  how  much  of  it 
is  true  —  how  much  have  you  been  keeping  from  me  ?" 

"Must  we  talk  about  it  now?"  the  girl  asked. 
"Mayn't  we  wait  till  you're  better  ?" 

"I  can't  be  better  until  I  know  the  whole  truth 
about  my  dearest  one,"  Mrs.  Gray  whispered.  "I 
shall  be  all  right  —  propped  up  by  these  pillows.  That 

76 


THE  LETTERS  77 

awful  Miss  Duplessis  —  she  gave  me  the  most  terrible 
shock.  And  everybody  had  read  it  in  the  paper. 
That's  why  they  came  —  in  such  droves,  I  know.  To 
-  spy  out  the  nakedness  of  the  land.'* 

"Everybody    has    read    what?"    echoed    Winifred. 

"  Don't  you  know,  dear  ?  Has  no  officious  person 
done  you  the  same  kindness  Miss  Duplessis  did  me, 
and  shown  you  a  copy  of  "The  Evening  Impres- 
sionist?" 

Involuntarily  Winifred's  hand  tightened  on  her 
mother's.  It  was  known  in  theatrical  as  well  as  in 
journalistic  circles  that  Lionel  Macaire  had  lately 
bought  that  extremely  sensational  paper,  The  Eve- 
ning Impressionist. 

"I  haven't  seen  any  paper  to-day,"  she  answered, 
with  dry  lips.  "I've  been — too  busy.  What  did 
The  Impressionist  say?  Something  about  —  me?" 

"It's  here,  in  this  room,  darling.  Perhaps  you 
had  better  read  it  for  yourself  —  and  yet  —  I  can't 
bear  that  you  should  have  to  see  it.  It's  not  so  much 
what  it  says,  as  what  it  implies." 

"Tell  me,  dear,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "I  don't  want 
to  let  your  hands  go." 

"  It  is  almost  too  hateful  to  speak  of.  There  was  a 
hint  that  there  had  been  a  sensational  occurrence  at  the 
Duke  of  Clarence's  Theater,  that  a  'scandal'  was 
threatened,  following  a  young  and  popular  actress's 
attempted  elopement  with  a  man  of  high  position. 
And  then,  after  veiled  suggestions,  to  save  itself,  no 
doubt,  from  being  sued  for  libel,  it  added  that  Miss 
Winifred  Gray's  connection  with  Mr.  Anderson's 
company  had  been  suddenly  severed,  Miss  Henrietta 
Cotter  taking  her  place  as  Lady  Kitty,  in  The  Green 


78  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Sun-bonnet,  and  also  playing  Celia  in  the  forthcoming 
production  of  As  Ton  Like  It.  Those  were  the  words 
as  nearly  as  I  can  remember  them,  and,  of  course, 
my  dearest,  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  that  I  know  the 
first  part  is  the  most  wicked  fabrication;  but  the  last  — 
Miss  Duplessis  told  the  room  that  you  were  not  at 
rehearsal,  that  your  understudy  rehearsed  your  part, 
and  that  Mr.  Anderson  said  - 

"What  did  Mr.  Anderson  say?"  broke  in  Winifred 
passionately.  "What  did  he  dare  to  say?" 

"Merely  that  he  'regretted  your  connection  with 
his  company  had  come  to  an  end/  Everyone  was 
astonished  and  excited,  Miss  Duplessis  took  pains  to 
inform  us,  and  somehow  the  most  mysterious  and 
romantic  rumors  were  started,  nobody  exactly  knew 
how.  She  remembered  that  this  was  our  'day,'  and 
determined  to  come  up.  And  on  the  way,  appar- 
ently, she  bought  this  horrid  paper,  which  seemed 
only  to  have  whetted  her  girlish  curiosity.  Oh,  I 
thought  I  should  have  to  faint  before  them  all,  in 
the  midst  of  the  chatter  about  'how  you  would  be 
missed  at  the  theater,'  how  people  would  'boycot' 
Mr.  Anderson  if  he  really  had  treated  you  badly, 
and  all  sorts  of  wild  things.  But  I  tried  so  hard 
to  keep  up  —  and  I  did,  till  it  was  over,  thank  Heaven. 
Words  grew  to  be  meaningless  to  me  before  those 
cruel  creatures  went.  I  didn't  know  what  I  said 
myself,  or  what  others  said.  It  was  just  a  babel 
of  sound,  breaking  on  my  ears  like  a  ceaseless 
tide.  What  is  true,  darling?  Have  you  left  the 
theater?" 

"Yes,"  said  Winifred,  in  a  low,  tired  voice.  And 
then,  kneeling  by  her  mother's  side  she  told  her  all 


THE  LETTERS  79 

the  story  —  for  it  was  best  to  keep  back  nothing  now; 
and  even  the  strange  incident  of  the  cab,  which  seemed 
to  gain  a  new  meaning  in  the  fierce  light  of  later  develop- 
ments, was  not  forgotten. 

It  appeared  not  improbable  that  the  man  on  the 
box-seat  who  had  "looked  like  a  prize-fighter  in  his 
best  clothes,"  Winifred  thought,  had  been  in  Lionel 
Macaire's  pay,  though  precisely  what  his  mission 
might  have  been  she  failed  to  see.  Nowadays  even 
actresses  were  not  abducted  by  those  who  loved  or 
hated  them,  or  she  and  her  mother,  talking  it  over 
together,  might  have  guessed  that  the  cabman  was  to 
be  bribed  for  something  more  than  allowing  the  man 
to  sit  beside  him  on  the  box-seat. 

At  all  events,  Lionel  Macaire  was  clearly  at  the 
bottom  of  every  other  misfortune  which  had  befallen 
her;  and  he  must  have  had  his  hands  full  in  accom- 
plishing all  so  quickly. 

He  had  made  it  worth  the  actor-manager's  while  to 
discharge  her;  he  had  induced  Mr.  Anderson  to  make 
a  mystery  of  her  going,  before  the  assembled  company, 
instead  of  keeping  the  volunteered  promise  that 
illness  should  account  for  it.  He  had  written,  or 
caused  to  be  written,  certain  anonymous  letters, 
increasing  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  new  engagement, 
and  sowing  the  seed  of  strange  ideas  regarding  her 
in  the  minds  of  agents  —  perhaps  also  of  managers. 
He  had  followed  up  these  by  inspiring  an  article  in 
his  paper  stealthily  reflecting  upon  her  character 
without  actually  saying  in  so  many  words  that  Win- 
ifred Gray  was  "  the  young  actress  who  had  attempted 
an  elopement." 

The    article    made    a    denial    impossible,    lest   the 


80  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

world  should  say,  "If  the  cap  did  not  fit,  why  did  the 
girl  allow  herself  to  wear  it  ?" 

Having  struck  so  devastating  a  blow  in  less  than 
twenty-four  hours,  it  was  hardly  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  the  hand  of  revenge  would  thereafter  be 
held.  Winifred  was  no  longer  afraid;  anger  domi- 
nated her  too  completely  for  fear  to  find  room  in 
mind  or  heart;  but  Mrs.  Gray  looked  forward  with 
shivering  apprehensions  to  her  daughter's  future. 
What  if  she  should  by-and-bye  be  left  alone,  without 
even  the  poor  protection  of  her  mother's  weak  arms  ? 

"Somebody  must  be  told  this  story,"  the  elder 
woman  said  at  last.  "Somebody  who  is  strong,  and 
influential,  and  can  stem  the  tide  of  scandal.  Some 
man  who  will  be  able  and  willing  to  denounce  this 
wicked  wretch  for  the  villain  he  is." 

"What  man  do  we  know  who  would  be  able  and 
willing?"  asked  Winifred.  "Can  you  think  of  one 
among  those  we  call  our  friends  ?" 

Mrs.  Gray  was  silent,  reviewing  her  acquaint- 
ances one  by  one. 

She  and  Winifred  had  only  lived  in  London  for 
seven  or  eight  months.  Her  husband  had  been  a 
captain  in  a  line  regiment  —  not  one  of  the  "smart" 
regiments  which  means  a  passport  to  Society  with  a 
large  "S"  —  and  he  had  been  killed  in  India  when 
Dick  was  four  and  Winifred  three  years  old.  Since 
that  time  Mrs.  Gray  had  got  on  somehow,  she  hardly 
knew  how,  upon  her  husband's  pension,  eking  out 
her  income  by  painting  miniatures,  until  her  eyesight 
was  almost  ruined. 

Then  Winifred  had  gone  upon  the  stage,  and  the 
forty  shillings  a  week  which  she  had  contrived  to  send 


THE  LETTERS  81 

home  when  her  salary  had  been  raised  to  the  mag- 
nificent sum  of  three  pounds,  had  meant  all  the  differ- 
ence between  semi-starvation  and  comparative  comfort 
in  the  small  country  town  where  Mrs.  Gray  lived, 
in  tiny  lodgings  with  her  son,  who  once  in  two  or 
three  months  was  lucky  enough  to  sell  a  short  story 
for  a  couple  of  guineas. 

People  in  big  towns  or  small  do  not  call  upon  dwellers 
in  lodgings,  and  the  Grays,  who  had  no  near  relatives, 
had  lived  to  themselves  until  good  fortune  had  whisked 
Winifred  from  the  provinces  to  London,  and  bestowed 
upon  her  twelve  pounds  a  week. 

Several  men  had  asked  Winifred  to  marry  them 
since  the  beginning  of  her  success  as  "Lady  Kitty." 
One  had  been  a  young  curate,  who  thought  it  his 
duty  to  redeem  her  from  a  life  of  meretricious  glitter 
on  the  stage  (poor  Winifred,  whose  life  had  been 
brightened  by  so  little  "meretricious  glitter");  another 
had  been  a  smart  young  guardsman,  whose  muscles 
were  far  in  advance  of  his  brains;  a  third  had  been 
a  tinned-meat  millionaire  from  Chicago,  who  had 
gone  back  disappointed  to  his  native  land;  and  the 
others  had  been  actors  of  no  great  talent  or  intellect. 
Not  one  could  have  been  depended  on  in  an  emergency, 
even  if  the  girl  had  not  sent  them  away,  without  even 
offering  to  be  their  sister,  long  ago. 

They  went  to  church  every  Sunday,  and  the  clergy- 
man occasionally  called  upon  them,  but  he  had  few 
militant  qualities,  and  such  as  he  had  Mrs.  Gray 
could  not  ask  him  to  place  at  her  service.  There  was 
a  doctor,  too,  who  had  been  "nice"  to  her  since  the 
beginning  of  her  illness,  but  he  was  not  to  be  thought 
of  in  this  crisis;  and  there  was  nobody  else.  Win- 


82 

ifred  was  right.  Most  of  the  people  they  knew  were 
acquaintances,  not  friends. 

"You  don't  realize,  dear,  what  a  power  Mr.  Macaire 
is  in  London,"  Winifred  said,  when  her  mother 
remained  silent.  "I  don't  believe  there  are  many 
who  really  like  him,  but  he  is  very  lavish  with  his 
money,  and  people  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  have 
the  benefit  of  it.  He  gives  the  most  gorgeous  enter- 
tainments, they  say,  which  have  ever  been  seen  in 
England.  He  thinks  of  the  most  wonderful  surprises 
for  his  guests,  that  seem  like  things  out  of  fairy  stories, 
and  his  houses  are  palaces,  I've  heard.  That's  the 
reason  they've  nicknamed  him  'Nero  the  Second'  — 
because  whatever  he  does  or  has  is  so  extravagantly 
splendid,  almost  barbaric.  Don't  you  remember  I 
was  invited  to  his  house  at  Richmond  last  June  with 
Mr.  Anderson  and  Mrs.  Peter  Carlton,  but  I  wouldn't 
go  because  Mrs.  Peter  didn't  like  me  very  much,  and 
I  thought  I  shouldn't  enjoy  it  ?  How  thankful  I  am 
now  that  I  didn't  touch  anything  of  his ! 

"They  all  came  back  with  marvelous  accounts 
of  glass  tables  that  rose  out  of  the  floor,  and  were 
lighted  by  different  colors  that  seemed  to  run  through 
the  glass.  And  at  dinner  the  ladies  had  diamond 
bracelets  in  their  bouquets.  Well,  when  men  enter- 
tain like  that,  and  have  all  sorts  of  pleasures  to  give 
their  friends,  and  can  tell  them  how  to  place  their 
money  on  the  Stock  Exchange  or  in  a  horse-race, 
or  find  positions  for  their  sons  and  brothers  on  news- 
papers, they  can  do  whatever  they  like,  without  being 
afraid.  Nobody  wants  to  speak  against  them;  no- 
body wants  to  have  them  for  enemies.  What  would 
people  think  if  I  went  about  telling  them  that 


THE  LETTERS  83 

Mr.  Macaire  had  made  love  to  me,  and  because  I 
wouldn't  listen  to  him  he  was  trying  to  ruin  my  career  ? " 

"I  should  think  everyone  who  had  ever  seen  him 
might  believe  anything  of  him!"  exclaimed  the  little 
woman,  who  had  always  been  the  most  charitable 
soul  on  earth,  speaking  evil  of  none,  defending  sinners 
for  the  one  spark  of  good  which  she  supposed  still  to 
be  lurking  in  their  hearts. 

"If  they  did  believe  it  they  would  say  they  didn't. 
They  would  probably  think  instead  that  I  had  angled 
for  his  attention,  and,  finding  that  he  didn't  notice 
me,  I  had  maligned  him  out  of  sheer  spite.  Oh,  Mr. 
Macaire's  quite  safe  from  anything  you  and  I  can 
do,  mother;  we  might  as  well  make  up  our  minds  to 
that." 

"If  only  Dick  were  older,  and  —  different!"  sighed 
Mrs.  Gray. 

"He  isn't,  darling.  I  don't  despair,  though.  I 
won't  despair.  We'll  fight  Lionel  Macaire  and  his 
wickedness,  and  in  the  end  I  believe  that  we  shall  win." 

But  the  silent  battle  had  only  just  begun. 

Within  the  next  few  days  Winifred  had  seen,  or 
tried  to  see,  all  the  London  managers.  One  or  two 
were  thinking  of  putting  on  new  productions;  but 
none  of  them  had  a  part  to  offer  her.  The  girl,  who 
had  met  several  of  these  important  personages  in 
the  brief  heyday  of  her  success,  and  found  them 
most  agreeable  men,  fancied  that  their  manner  had 
changed.  She  felt  that  they  looked  at  her  differently, 
and  there  was  a  hollow  ring  in  their  regrets  that  she 
had  not  been  able  to  come  to  them  a  few  weeks  earlier. 
Almost  with  one  accord  everybody  said  that. 

After    she   had    met   with    disappointment    on    all 


84  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

sides,  Winifred  troubled  herself  by  the  fear  that 
she  had  seemed  to  expect  too  much,  and  wished  she 
had  clearly  specified  that  she  was  ready  to  accept 
a  small  part  —  a  very,  very  small  part.  After  the 
position  she  had  held  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  and 
in  public  estimation,  it  would  be  a  humiliation  to 
appear  as  a  mere  "walking  lady"  —  a  humiliation 
which  only  an  actor  or  actress  can  thoroughly  appre- 
ciate —  but  the  girl  was  ready  to  do  anything  honest 
for  the  sake  of  the  money  needed  by  her  mother. 

That  need  was  not  mentioned  again  now  by  the 
two  women.  Mrs.  Gray  would  have  given  much  if 
she  had  kept  the  doctor's  verdict  to  herself,  that 
Winnie's  anxieties  need  not  be  increased  for  her  sake; 
but  it  was  too  late  for  such  a  wish  to  be  of  avail,  and 
she  could  only  hope,  since  Winnie  said  nothing  more 
on  the  subject,  that  other  troubles  had  for  the  time 
being  crowded  that  one  out  of  the  girl's  mind.  She 
would  have  thought  differently,  however,  could  she 
have  seen  how  her  daughter's  wide-open  eyes  gazed 
into  the  darkness  every  night,  as  St.  Mary's  clock 
tolled  out  the  small  hours. 

Winifred  no  longer  went  to  bed  to  sleep,  but  to  lie 
turning  over  plan  after  plan. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  sum  put  into  the  Irish  paper — 
and  lost  —  the  crisis  might  have  been  tided  over, 
but  as  it  was,  there  was  scarcely  any  available  money, 
and  a  thousand  calls  for  it.  Rent  to  be  paid;  servants 
and  household  bills  to  be  paid.  And  presently  Dick 
would  be  at  home  again  —  a  delightful  fellow  whom 
everyone  liked,  but  boyishly  selfish  and  destitute 
of  that  indescribable  quality  which  enables  a  man  to 
get  on  in  the  world.  He  would  be  a  hindrance,  instead 


THE  LETTERS  85 

of  a  help,  pleasant  as  his  society  was;  for  he  liked 
nice  things,  and  would  be  unable  to  earn  them.  He 
was  only  another  to  be  provided  for,  and  though  he 
would  cheerfully  try  to  find  something  to  do,  Wini- 
fred was  almost  as  certain  as  of  her  own  existence 
that  he  would  fail,  as  he  had  failed  dozens  of 
times  before. 

She  wrote  to  her  old  manager,  with  whom  she  had 
toured  the  provinces,  but  he  had  been  vexed  with  her 
for  leaving  him,  prophesying  evil  things,  and  his 
letter  in  answer  to  hers  was  a  mild,  "I  told  you  so." 
His  company  was  full.  There  was  no  hope  from  him. 

Then  she  tried  other  provincial  managers  —  every- 
one whose  name  she  knew.  She  visited  the  agents 
again  and  again,  and  at  last  she  was  reduced  to  answer- 
ing advertisements  in  the  theatrical  papers.  But 
in  one  or  two  cases  she  was  too  late,  and  in  others 
the  salary  was  not  to  exceed  a  guinea  a  week,  the 
actress  to  play  six  leading  parts  in  a  repertoire,  and 
provide  all  her  own  dresses. 

Meanwhile,  Dick  came  home  looking  adorably 
handsome,  and  bemoaning  his  own  misfortunes, 
which,  in  his  eyes,  loomed  larger  than  his  sister's, 
and  were  irritatingly  increased  by  hers.  He  wan- 
dered about,  seeking  sub-editorships  on  the  strength 
of  his  Irish  experience,  or  stayed  at  home  and  wrote 
stories  which  nobody  would  have. 

There  was  no  money  save  a  quarterly  instalment 
of  Mrs.  Gray's  tiny  pension,  and  the  remains  of 
Winifred's  savings,  so  that  affairs  grew  desperate  and 
the  future  loomed  dark,  with  no  ray  of  hope  shining 
through  its  clouds. 

One   morning,   Mrs.    Gray,   aching  in   heart   and 


86 

soul  at  the  thought  of  her  own  helplessness  and  the 
sight  of  Winifred's  face  growing  whiter  every  day, 
impulsively  reproached  Dick  for  trying  only  to  get 
the  sort  of  work  he  liked,  not  striving  for  what  he 
might  really  obtain,  no  matter  if  it  were  irksome. 
The  burden  thrown  upon  Winnie  was  too  great;  he 
must  shoulder  his  part  of  it. 

Without  a  word  Dick  took  up  the  smart  silk  hat 
he  had  been  playing  with,  and  walked  out  of  the 
room  with  such  a  look  on  his  beautifully  chiseled 
face  —  wonderfully  like  his  handsome,  improvident 
father's  —  that  the  mother's  heart  smote  her. 

That  afternoon,  while  Winifred  was  out  wearily 
interviewing  the  agents  who  had  always  the  same 
answer,  a  note  in  Dick's  handwriting  was  brought 
to  Mrs.  Gray  by  a  messenger. 

"DEAR  MOTHER:  —  I  have  done  what  you  wished, 
and  shouldered  my  half  of  the  burden,"  it  curtly  ran. 
"As  you  truly  said,  I  ought  not  to  mind  whether  it 
is  irksome  or  not,  and  as  there  seemed  to  be  only  one 
door  open  to  me,  I've  gone  in  by  it.  I  suppose  you 
won't  scorn  my  father's  profession  for  me,  even  though 
I  begin  at  the  bottom.  This  means  that  I've  taken 
the  King's  shilling  —  or  would,  if  they'd  bothered 
giving  it  to  me.  And  I'm  now  Private  Richard  Gray, 
1st  Battalion  Northamptonshire  Regiment,  but  still 
your  son,  who  —  I  hope  you'll  think  —  has  done  the 
best  he  could." 

"P.  S. —  (Dick  had  not  been  able  to  resist  this  last 
reproachful  little  stab.)  As  I  thought  it  would  be 
better  not  to  shame  you  and  Win  by  calling  on  you  in 
the  uniform  of  a  private  soldier,  I  have  enlisted  in  a 


THE  LETTERS  87 

regiment  quartered  at  a  distance.  This  to  save  you 
pain;  and  so,  good-by." 

A  week  later  followed  a  letter  imploring  his  mother, 
for  heaven's  sake,  to  get  money  somehow,  no  matter 
how,  and  buy  him  out.  The  life  was  awful.  A 
gentleman  couldn't  stand  it.  If  he  weren't  saved 
from  it  he  would  not  answer  for  himself.  He  should 
be  tempted  to  commit  suicide,  for  existence  as  a 
"ranker"  was  worse  than  death. 

Supposing  he  did  take  his  own  life  ?  the  mother 
and  daughter  asked  each  other.  He  was  rash  enough 
to  do  anything,  and  his  present  mood  seemed  a  des- 
perate one.  Yet  they  could  not  help. 

It  was  while  Mrs.  Gray  still  held  Dick's  passionate 
appeal  in  her  hand,  just  read,  that  the  bell  rang  sharply. 
Winifred  herself  went  to  the  door,  as  Jameson  and  the 
cook  had  both  been  paid  and  sent  away.  A  district 
messenger  boy. had  come  with  a  letter  for  her.  "I 
was  to  wait  for  an  answer,  miss,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 
WINIFRED'S  LUCK 

THE  letter  was  from  Fitzjohn  Doulton,  the  agent 
whom  Winifred  had  called  upon  in  vain  on  the  first 
day  of  her  trouble.  Since  then  she  had  seen  him 
not  once,  but  several  times;  yet  he  had  never  any 
hope  to  hold  out.  Now  he  wrote  in  haste,  asking  her 
to  come  down  at  once,  as  there  was  a  chance  which 
might  suit  her. 

Winifred  was  too  young  and  healthy  a  girl  not  to 
be  sanguine.  In  the  past  weeks  of  suspense  and  dis- 
appointment she  thought  that  she  had  learned  not  to 
hope  for  anything  until  it  should  be  a  certainty,  but 
now  her  hope  leaped  up  with  a  bound.  She  had  lost 
a  certain  superficial  radiance  of  her  prettiness  lately 
through  sleepless  nights  and  weariful  days,  which 
had  drained  her  face  of  color,  robbed  her  eyes  of 
brightness  and  her  cheeks  of  their  childlike  contour; 
but  as  she  ran  in  to  Mrs.  Gray  with  the  letter 
from  Mr.  Doulton  all  her  bloom  and  sparkle  had 
come  back. 

"We'll  wire  poor  old  Dick  to  keep  up  his  courage, 
and  that  we'll  do  our  best  for  him,"  she  cried.  "And 
for  you,  dearest  —  oh,  it  shall  be  all  right  for  you 
soon  —  soon.  You  didn't  think  I'd  forgotten.  It  does 
really  seem  as  if  there  were  something  in  this.  Mr. 
Doulton  wouldn't  have  troubled  to  send  up  in  such 


WINIFRED'S  LUCK  89 

a  hurry  otherwise.  And  I've  sent  the  boy  back  to 
say  that  I'll  be  at  the  office  almost  as  soon  as  he  will." 

The  two  kissed  each  other  with  a  kiss  that  meant 
much;  all  they  had  suffered  together  in  the  past,  and 
all  they  dared  to  hope  for  in  the  future,  was  in  the 
close  touch  of  the  fading  lips  and  the  young,  red 
mouth.  Then  Winifred  hurried  off  to  her  room  to 
put  on  her  prettiest  frock,  that  —  thin  and  slightly 
worn  as  it  already  was  —  she  might  favorably  impress 
the  manager,  who  was  presumably  waiting  to  inter- 
view her. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  she  had  worn  pretty 
things  all  day  long,  but  that  was  past,  and  to-day 
she  had  been  dressed  for  housework.  Her  smartest 
gowns  had  all  been  sold  to  a  second-hand  clothes 
dealer,  to  pay  the  weekly  bills  of  the  household;  and 
even  the  little  enameled  watch  and  the  few  rings  and 
brooches  which  she  had  possessed,  had  gone  in  the 
same  way.  Only  six  weeks  had  passed  since  she 
had  been  a  successful  actress,  envied  by  many  older 
women  on  the  stage,  and  now  she  had  but  one  frock 
which  was  fit  to  appear  in  before  the  critical  eyes  of 
the  managers;  there  was  hardly  a  silver  spoon  left  in  the 
flat,  and  the  flat  itself  would  long  ago  have  been 
abandoned  for  cheaper  quarters,  if  it  could  have 
been  let. 

Still,  when  Winifred  went  out  of  the  house,  fifteen 
minutes  after  the  departure  of  the  messenger,  she 
looked  like  anything  save  an  object  of  pity.  A  woman 
might  have  known  by  the  cut  of  her  skirt  or  the  shape 
of  her  sleeves  that  she  was  wearing  last  autumn's  gown, 
or  observed  that  the  feathers  in  her  hat  had  been 
re-curled,  and  her  gloves  cleaned;  but  a  man  would 


9o  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

only  have  seen  a  lovely  face  under  a  charming  hat, 
and  a  slim,  perfect  young  figure  in  a  neat,  tailor-made 
gown,  with  dainty  little  feet  in  pointed  shoes  that 
peeped  out  underneath. 

She  sent  the  telegram  to  Dick,  which  her  mother 
had  written  (for  he  must  be  encouraged,  even  if  encour- 
agement were  premature),  and  caught  an  omnibus 
which  would  take  her  in  a  few  minutes  to  the  corner 
of  the  street  running  off  the  Strand,  where  Fitzjohn 
Doulton  had  his  offices.  For  the  first  time  she  went 
up  the  stairs  which  led  to  them  without  a  sickly  sinking 
of  the  heart.  She  had  a  right  here  to-day;  she  had 
been  sent  for. 

For  once,  though  others  were  assembled  in  the 
outer  office,  she  had  not  to  wait.  Mr.  Doulton  was 
expecting  Miss  Gray,  and  had  given  orders  that  she 
was  to  go  to  him  as  soon  as  she  arrived. 

"Well,  my  dear,  your  chance  has  come  at  last!" 
were  his  first  words,  as  she  was  shown  in. 

A  few  weeks  ago  he  would  not  have  ventured  to 
call  her  "my  dear,"  though  it  was  his  habit,  in  com- 
mon with  a  certain  type  of  stage  manager,  to  address 
young  ladies  applying  to  him  for  engagements  in 
such  familiar  terms.  But  now  Miss  Winifred  Gray 
was  only  a  girl  among  other  girls,  "out  of  a  shop," 
and  dying  to  get  one;  and  to-day  was  not  a  day  when 
she  would  dare  to  resent  a  small  familiarity,  which, 
after  all,  meant  nothing  to  the  ears  of  a  professional. 

She  only  blushed  and  tightened  her  lips  a  little 
at  the  agent's  greeting,  murmuring  nervously  that 
she  had  come  down  as  quickly  as  she  could  to  hear 
his  news. 

"Well,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  you're  in  for  a  'soft  snap/ 


WINIFRED'S  LUCK  91 

as  our  neighbors  across  the  big  pond  say/'  went  on 
Doulton.  "  Leading  part,  good  salary,  and  immediate 
engagement.  The  only  difficulty  is 

"Oh,  there  is  a  difficulty?"  echoed  Winifred,  when 
he  paused. 

"That's  for  you  to  judge.  You  might  or  might 
not  think  it  one.  Anyhow,  at  this  season  of  the  year 
leading  parts  with  twenty  guineas  a  week  screw  don't 
grow  on  blackberry  bushes,  even  for  the  picking  of 
such  charming  young  actresses  as  yourself." 

"Twenty  guineas  a  week!"  exclaimed  the  girl 
with  a  wiry  beating  of  the  blood  in  her  temples.  "  Are 
—  are  you  sure  I  can  get  the  engagement  ? " 

Doulton  grinned  at  her  childlike  betrayal  of  eager- 
ness. "It's  for  you  to  take  or  leave,  it  appears,"  he 
answered  her.  "Marmaduke  Wantage,  a  man  well 
known  all  over  England  some  years  ago,  is  going  to 
revive  an  old  play,  which  was  once  very  celebrated, 
and  intends  to  make  a  great  production  of  it.  In 
his  opinion  you  are  exactly  what  he  wants  for  the 
principal  part,  and  as  it's  a  big  one  he  makes  a  big 
offer." 

"What  is  the  play  ?"  asked  Winifred. 

"The  play's  Mazeppa"  As  Fitzjohn  Doulton 
spoke  he  slyly  watched  the  girl's  face  from  under 
lowered  lids.  But  it  only  showed  surprise. 

"Mazeppa"  she  repeated  slowly,  as  if  the  name 
conveyed  no  particular  meaning  to  her  mind,  or  as 
if  she  hunted  vainly  for  an  elusive  recollection. 

"Yes.    Have  you  ever  read  Byron's  famous  poem  ?" 

"No,"  Winifred  answered,  quite  ashamed  of  the 
necessity  for  a  negative.  "I've  read  very  little  of 
Byron.  I've  heard  of  Mazeppa,  of  course,  but  I 


92  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

don't  even  know  what  it  s  about.  Wasn't  it  played 
a  long  time  ago  ?" 

"Long  before  your  day,  or  even  mine.  But  Wan- 
tage thinks  its  old  success  can  be  repeated,  with  a 
lot  of  scenic  effect,  and  a  good  company.  The  way  of 
it  is,  a  panto's  fallen  through,  and  he's  got  hold 
of  the  theater.  He's  going  to  try  this  instead,  to 
open  on  Boxing  Day.  So  you  see  there's  just  time 
to  do  it,  with  rehearsals  beginning  on  the  I5th;  that's 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  It's  sudden,  but  he  only 
just  got  the  date,  and  must  do  the  best  he  can.  I 
don't  say  that  you'll  like  the  part,  though  a  very 
handsome  creature,  Ada  Isaacs  Menken,  made  a 
tremendous  hit  in  it  forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  You 
can  sign  the  contract  to-day  if  you  like,  and  get  not 
only  your  railway  ticket  (you'll  be  expected  to  stop 
in  Brighton  for  rehearsals,  and  not  to  travel  back 
and  forth  between  there  and  town),  but  full  salary 
during  the  five  weeks  of  rehearsals." 

"Why,  it's  unheard  of!"  exclaimed  Winifred,  who 
knew  enough  of  the  stage  to  understand  how  quixoti- 
cally generous  such  an  offer  was. 

"  Good,  isn't  it  ?  But  a  rich  amateur,  who  has  an 
enormous  fancy  for  Byron  in  general  and  Mazeppa 
in  particular,  is  the  'angel,'  it  seems,  and  there  was 
some  fear  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  get  just  the  right 
woman  for  the  part.  I  suppose  this  is  a  sort  of  hook 
to  catch  the  fish." 

"And  I  am  really  the  fish  they  want!"  ejaculated 
the  girl.  "Surely  I  must  be  second  or  third  choice." 

"Well,  Wantage  did  intimate  that  he'd  suggested 
making  overtures  to  Miss  Nellson  before  applying 
to  me  at  all  for  any  of  his  people.  But  she's  under 


WINIFRED'S  LUCK  93 

contract  for  January,  so  it  was  no  use.  And  there 
aren't  many  of  the  right  sort  free  just  now.  He'll  be 
lucky  to  get  you,  and  he's  evidently  keen  on  you. 
Why,  look  here,  my  dear,  if  you'd  like  to  get  some- 
thing out  of  this  chap  I'll  give  you  a  tip.  You  might 
make  it  a  point  that  you  got  a  few  weeks'  screw  in 
advance  —  say  you  must  have  it  before  you  can  leave 
town,  or  anything  you  like.  I  believe  he'd  plump 
it  down  like  a  bird  rather  than  lose  you  —  for,  you 
see,  he's  up  a  tree,  as  if  the  thing's  to  be  ready  by 
Boxing  Day  he  must  have  all  his  arrangements  in 
working  order  at  once." 

Winifred's  head  swam  in  a  giddiness  of  sheer  joy, 
with  the  intensity  of  sudden  relief  after  long-con- 
tinued strain.  "Could  I  really  do  that?"  she  asked, 
her  breath  coming  and  going  quickly. 

"Of  course  you  could.  I'll  see  to  that.  It's  all 
the  better  for  me,  you  know,"  and  the  dramatic  agent 
laughed.  "As  for  Wantage  and  his  angel,  they'll  be 
glad  to  put  salt  on  the  bird's  tail.  You're  valuable 
to  them,  and  once  you've  handled  their  money  you're 
doubly  bound  to  keep  your  contract;  no  fine  lady 
whimsies  such  as  some  sweet  maids  in  our  profession 
indulge  in,  and  matrons,  too." 

Winifred  thought  within  herself  there  was  little 
enough  danger  that  she  would  try  to  escape  from  the 
contract.  Why,  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true  that 
so  wonderful  an  opportunity  had  come  to  her  at  last! 
Twenty  pounds  a  week  —  and  for  rehearsals,  too  — 
when  she  had  reached  a  pass  to  have  been  thankful 
for  three  or  four.  She  was  sure  that  the  hand  of 
providence  was  in  it;  and  she  was  glad  that  the  mat- 
ter was  to  be  arranged  so  quickly,  for  if  her  enemy 


94  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

had  heard  of  her  great  luck,  he  might  have  found 
some  way  of  prejudicing  this  Mr.  Marmaduke  Wan- 
tage and  his  rich  backer  against  her. 

Mr.  Doulton  committed  himself  to  a  virtual  promise 
that  if  she  chose  to  ask,  through  him,  for  salary  in 
advance,  three  or  four  weeks'  money  would  in  all 
probability  be  ready  for  her  taking  when  the  con- 
tract was  signed  next  day. 

That  night  there  was  much  rejoicing  in  the  little 
flat  near  Bryanston  Square.  The  reaction  from  suf- 
fering to  joy  was  almost  too  keen,  and  Winifred  and 
her  mother  cried  in  each  other's  arms. 

Next  morning,  Mr.  Doulton's  prophecy  was  proved 
true.  She  did  not  see  Mr.  Wantage,  who  was  attend- 
ing to  important  business  in  Brighton,  it  appeared, 
but  the  contract  was  ready  for  her  signature,  and  a 
check  for  100  guineas.  In  this  regard,  the  agent 
informed  her,  she  was  especially  favored.  No  one 
else  among  the  people  engaged  for  the  forthcoming 
production  would  have  got  an  advance  if  they  had 
asked  for  it,  but  her  part,  whether  she  liked  it  or  not, 
was  considered  that  of  a  "  star."  Besides,  Mr.  Doulton 
added  confidentially,  he  had  fancied  she  might  be  a 
"  bit  hard  up,"  owing  to  the  sudden  severance  of  her 
connection  with  the  "Duke  of  Clarence's,"  and  he 
had  made  a  special  point  of  the  accommodation  with 
Mr.  Wantage. 

So  the  agent  got  his  commission,  and  Winifred 
had  still  a  goodly  amount  left. 

She  knew  that  her  mother  would  not  have  one 
peaceful  moment  until  Dick  was  snatched  out  of  his 
present  predicament,  for  he  had  threatened  suicide, 
and  he  was  just  the  sort  of  rash,  impulsive  boy  to 


WINIFRED'S  LUCK  95 

keep  the  threat  in  some  dark  moment  of  desperation. 
At  least  Winifred  believed  that  he  might  do  this, 
and  if  so  terrible  a  thing  should  happen  her  mother 
would  die,  and  her  own  life  be  blighted  forever. 

To  save  Dick  from  the  situation  his  foolishness 
had  created  would  take  what  appeared  to  Winifred 
now  a  very  large  sum,  but  there  would  still  be  a  goodly 
amount  left  toward  the  expenses  of  the  surgical  opera- 
tion, which  Sir  Digby  Field  had  declared  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  Mrs.  Gray's  life. 

Without  speaking  to  her  mother  of  the  intention 
in  her  mind,  the  girl  went  straight  to  the  famous 
surgeon,  and  being  lucky  enough  to  find  him  dis- 
engaged for  the  moment,  frankly  asked  if  he  and  the 
authorities  at  the  nursing  home  where  the  dear  patient 
must  lie  for  a  few  weeks,  would  wait  for  part  of  the 
payment.  Unconsciously,  her  looks  rather  than  her 
words  betrayed  the  deep  anxiety  of  her  heart.  Sir 
Digby  Field  was  a  kind  old  man,  and  was  at  once 
interested.  He  remembered  Mrs.  Gray's  case  very 
well,  and  recalled  the  verdict  that  he  had  given  when 
he  had  seen  her  last.  He  had  said  then  that  she  ought 
to  be  operated  upon  within  two  months,  and  already 
six  weeks  had  gone  by  since  that  day.  There  was  no 
time  to  be  lost. 

Sir  Digby  had  seen  Winifred  act,  and  tactfully 
intimated  to  her  that  his  fee  was  less  to  "  professionals," 
or  the  immediate  family  of  professionals.  He  would 
do  his  part  for  half  the  usual  fee,  and  as  the  nursing 
home  was  under  his  direction  he  could  promise  that 
Mrs.  Gray  would  be  taken  for  something  less  than  the 
ordinary  charge.  Altogether,  Winifred  was  made  to 
understand  at  last  that  she  actually  had  enough  in 


96  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

hand  to  prevent  any  further  delay.  What  was  lacking 
could  easily  be  paid  out  of  the  next  few  weeks'  salary, 
when  she  received  it. 

When  all  this  had  been  carefully  calculated,  the 
girl  flew  home  to  her  mother  and  broke  the  news  that 
Sir  Digby  Field  had  set  the  day  for  the  ordeal.  The 
operation  would  be  performed  by  him  on  the  next 
Saturday,  and  Winifred  was  almost  certain  that, 
though  she  was  compelled  to  go  to  Brighton  at  once, 
and  was  not  supposed  to  travel  back  and  forth,  she 
would  be  allowed  to  come  to  town  for  so  good  and 
sufficient  a  reason. 

Arrangements  were  made  for  Dick's  release  from 
bondage;  and  then  Winifred  placed  the  rest  of  the 
money,  all  but  five  pounds  (upon  which  she  resolved 
to  live  during  the  weeks  of  rehearsal),  in  their  old  bank 
to  Mrs.  Gray's  credit.  So  it  would  be  safe  when  it 
was  needed,  and  presently  she  would  tell  her  mother 
what  had  been  done,  assuring  her  that  she  had  kept 
plenty  for  herself. 

It  was  bitterly  hard  to  say  good-by,  with  a  thought 
in  the  hearts  of  both  of  the  trial  that  was  coming  — 
the  danger  which  Sir  Digby  Field  made  light  of,  yet 
could  not  wholly  deny.  Still,  the  tide  of  fortune 
seemed  to  have  turned,  and  the  little  frail  woman 
and  the  girl  were  hopeful,  each  one  striving  to  appear 
far  more  cheerful  than  she  really  was.  Mrs.  Gray 
went  to  the  station  to  see  Winifred  off,  grieving  that 
she  should  go  third-class  and  without  a  maid,  and 
making  the  girl  promise  that  she  would  take  comfort- 
able lodgings  and  write  immediately.  Dick  would  be 
home  before  Saturday,  and  Winifred  must  not  fret. 

By  the  same  train  went  several  of  the  actors  and 


WINIFRED'S  LUCK  97 

actresses  engaged  for  Mr.  Marmaduke  Wantage's 
production,  and  Winifred  recognized  them  from 
portraits  which  she  had  seen  in  Fitzjohn  Doulton's 
office.  He  had  pointed  the  photographs  out  to  her 
the  day  before,  saying  that  the  originals  would  be 
of  her  "party."  It  struck  the  girl  that  they  were 
all  somewhat  common  in  their  appearance  —  "cheap 
people,"  as  they  would  have  been  slightingly  called 
in  their  own  profession,  and  she  could  not  see  one 
among  the  number  whom  she  thought  that  she  should 
care  to  know. 

"I  do  hope  there  will  be  others  who  are  nicer," 
she  found  herself  wishing,  then  remembered  how 
little  difference  it  would  make  to  her  after  all. 

Whether  they  had  motives  for  econorriy  equal  to 
her  own,  or  whether  their  salaries  for  rehearsal  were 
not  to  be  on  the  same  scale  of  generosity  as  hers, 
at  all  events,  the  five  or  six  other  members  of  the  new 
company  traveled  third-class  also,  and  a  gaudily 
dressed  young  woman  with  very  yellow  hair  came 
into  Winifred's  compartment. 

She  was  a  witness  to  the  farewells  between  the 
girl  and  her  mother;  and  when  the  train  had  left 
Victoria  Station  she  spoke  to  Winifred,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  the  only  other  occupant  of  the  compart- 
ment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  lady  of  the  yellow 
hair,  "  but  are  you  Miss  Winifred  Gray  ?" 

Winifred  smiled  —  a  little  sadly,  for  tears  were  on 
her  lashes  still  from  the  parting  with  her  best  loved 
one  —  and  admitted  her  claim  to  that  name. 

"I  thought  I  must  be  right,"  went  on  the  other. 
"I  never  saw  you  act,  but  I've  seen  your  photograph 


98  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

—  only  you're  thinner  and  a  bit  different  somehow. 
Fm  Miss  Julia  Sinclair.  Perhaps  you've  heard  of 
me.  I  think  we're  going  to  be  in  the  same  company, 
from  what  Mr.  Doulton  told  me.  Only,  of  course, 
it  isn't  true  that  you're  playing  Ma%eppa  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  said  Winifred. 

Her  traveling  companion  gave  her  a  very  queer 
look.  "Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  thought  Mr. 
Doulton  must  be  joking.  I  shouldn't  have  supposed 
that  was  in  your  line  at  all." 

"  Why  not  ? "  Winifred  asked,  wondering  at  the  look 
and  tone. 

"Oh,  nothing  particular,"  said  Miss  Sinclair.  But 
her  voice  declared  that  it  was  very  particular  indeed; 
and  the  first  faint  thrill  of  apprehension  that  Winifred 
had  felt  for  herself  since  her  great  good  fortune  thrilled 
through  her  veins.  What  was  there  so  peculiar  about 
this  part,  which  first  Mr.  Doulton  and  now  this  bold- 
eyed  girl  had  hinted  at?  Why  should  it  be  "out  of 
her  line"  ? 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME 

WINIFRED  had  left  London  in  the  morning,  and 
at  two  the  first  reading  rehearsal  was  appointed  at 
the  Brighton  Theater.  She  found  cheap  lodgings  — 
not  in  the  same  house  with  Miss  Julia  Sinclair,  for 
whose  companionship  she  had  no  fancy  —  lunched  on 
bread  and  milk,  that  her  five  guineas  might  last  the 
longer,  and  arrived  early  at  the  theater. 

The  stage  manager  and  prompter  were  already  at 
the  little  table  on  which  lay  all  the  parts  for  distri- 
bution. The  former  rose  with  more  punctilious- 
ness than  most  provincial  stage  managers  show  as 
Winifred  drew  near,  and  a  tall,  slightly  dissipated 
looking  man,  who  had  been  talking  with  him  and 
the  prompter,  advanced  to  meet  her. 

"Miss  Gray,  I  think?"  said  the  tall  man.  "Ah, 
yes,  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  act  in  Lon- 
don. I  am  Mr.  Wantage.  Glad  to  meet  you,  and 
to  have  secured  you  for  my  production." 

Thereupon  he  proceeded  to  introduce  the  stage 
manager,  whose  name  was  Jeffreys,  and  Winifred 
was  given  her  part.  By  this  time  the  company  was 
assembling,  and  the  girl  could  not  help  noticing  how 
differently  she  was  treated  from  the  rest.  It  was  as 
if  she  had  been  a  princess  among  peasants,  and  she 
was  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  way  in  which  she  was 

99 


ioo  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

distinguished,  since  the  fact  that  she  was  engaged  to 
play  a  leading  part  was  hardly  enough  alone  to 
account  for  it.  Mr.  Marmaduke  Wantage,  too,  was 
a  puzzle.  Once  he  had  been  what  is  called  a  "fine 
man,"  but  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been  buffeted  in 
the  battle  of  life.  His  nose  was  red;  there  were  bags 
under  his  eyes,  and  his  flashy  clothing  was  ostenta- 
tiously new.  He  gave  the  impression  of  a  person  who 
had  been  down  in  the  world,  having  come  so  suddenly 
up  again  as  to  be  almost  disconcerted  by  his  own 
good  luck. 

After  an  introduction  or  two  had  been  effected 
Winifred  opened  her  part  with  curiosity,  and  began 
to  skim  over  the  lines  before  the  rehearsal.  Then 
came  a  shock.  She  hurried  from  the  wings  where 
she  had  been  sitting  to  the  stage  manager,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  finished  giving  certain  directions  to 
the  prompter  she  attracted  his  attention. 
.  "These  read  like  a  man's  lines,"  she  said. 

"Mazeppa  was   a    man,  you  know,"  he  answered. 

For  an  instant  Winifred  could  not  speak,  but  by 
an  effort  she  controlled  herself.  "I  didn't  know," 
she  returned.  "No  doubt  it  was  stupid  of  me,  but 
I  never  read  the  poem  or  heard  anyone  speak  of  it, 
except  casually.  I — I  can't —  She  was  about  to 

say  that  she  could  not  possibly  play  a  male  part,  when 
she  remembered  how  completely  she  was  bound.  "  It 
isn't  my  line  at  all."  (Miss  Julia  Sinclair's  very 
words,  as  she  realized  while  speaking  them.) 

"Mr.  Wantage  thinks  it's  your  line,"  replied  the 
stage  manager.  "You're  'specially  engaged.'  I 
should  have  thought  a  larger  person  would  look  it 
better;  but  I've  no  doubt  you'll  act  charmingly." 


A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME  101 

His  eyes  glanced  over  her  face  and  figure.  "And 
in  your  great  scene  you  will  be  perfect." 

"Oh,  is  there  a  'great  scene'  ?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes.  It  was  a  big  sensation  once.  No  reason  why 
it  shouldn't  be  so  again." 

"And  the  costume?"  Winifred  faltered,  her  eyes 
large  and  anxious. 

"  Oh  —  the  costume  ?  You'll  find  that  all  right. 
Picturesque,  you  know  —  ancient  period.  Plenty  of 
time  to  discuss  that  later.  Now  we  really  must  call 
the  first  act." 

Winifred  felt  cold  all  over.  She  had  never  played 
a  part  in  male  attire  save  Rosalind,  which  she  had 
dressed  in  long  leggings,  the  drapery  of  a  cloak  con- 
stantly falling  about  the  figure  or  forming  a  back- 
ground. Even  that  costume  had  caused  her  embar- 
rassment at  first,  although  Rosalind,  being  really  a 
girl,  with  all  a  sweet,  wholesome-minded  girl's  mod- 
esty to  shield  her  even  in  disguise,  made  it  less  dis- 
tasteful to  an  actress  than  genuinely  apeing  a  man. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  except  go  through 
with  it.  Not  only  was  the  contract  signed,  but  she 
had  accepted  full  salary  in  advance  for  the  weeks 
of  rehearsal.  It  was  partly  her  own  fault.  She  ought 
to  have  thought  less  of  the  advantage  she  would 
reap  and  more  about  the  part;  then  she  would  have 
asked  more  questions.  But  even  so,  Winifred  did 
not  see,  if  she  had  known  the  truth  from  the  begin- 
ning, how  ^he  could  have  acted  differently.  It  was 
for  her  mother's  very  life  —  perhaps  her  brother's 
life  too,  and  she  must  not  think  of  herself  and  her 
own  scruples.  Many  good,  modest  women  dressed 
in  male  attire  on  the  stage,  and  no  one  thought  the 


102  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

less  of  them,  nor  did  they  lose  their  own  self-respect 
—  which  was  even  more  important. 

So  Winifred  read  her  lines,  and  learned  her  stage 
business,  and  nobody  guessed  what  she  was  feeling. 
But  as  the  rehearsal  went  on  she  wondered  more  and 
more  at  the  choice  of  Mazeppa  as  an  attraction  to 
open  at  pantomime  time  in  a  town  like  Brighton  at 
the  beginning  of  this  blase  twentieth  century.  It 
was  said  to  be  a  "new  version,"  but  it  was  clumsy 
and  old-fashioned. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked  the  man  des- 
tined to  play  the  tyrant,  who  dooms  Mazeppa  to  a 
ghastly  fate.  He  spoke  in  a  confidential  undertone, 
such  as  one  "pro."  uses  to  another  when  the  eccen- 
tricities of  the  management  are  to  be  discussed.  They 
were  not  "on,"  but  were  waiting  in  the  wings,  and 
nobody  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  words. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  it,"  responded 
Winifred. 

"If  it  has  a  chance  it  will  be  your  big  scene  that 
will  save  it." 

"  You  mean  the  one  with  you  ? " 

"No  —  oh,  dear  no.  I  mean  when  you  come  on 
strapped  to  the  horse.  They  say  the  house  used  to 
rise  to  Ada  Isaacs  Menken." 

"I  —  have  to  come  on  —  strapped  to  a  horse  ?" 

"Don't  tell  me  you  didn't  know  that?" 

"I  didn't.  Oh,  I  can't  do  it.  I  should  be  too 
frightened.  They  must  leave  out  that  scene." 

"I  expect  they'd  sooner  leave  out  all  the  rest  of 
the  play.  Why,  that  is  'Mazeppa' -- all  it's  worth 
being  put  on  for.  They'll  get  a  reliable  'gee'  for 
you,  of  course.  But  there'll  have  to  be  rehearsals. 


A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME  103 

Fact  is,  Miss  Gray"  —  and  he  chuckled  a  little  — 
"we're  all  rather  looking  forward  to  that  scene." 

Somehow  Winifred  was  angry.  He  was  not  a 
gentleman,  she  told  herself,  and  there  was  a  look 
and  an  emphasis  which  she  disliked,  though  she  could 
not  quite  have  explained  why. 

After  the  rehearsal  Mr.  Wantage  called  her  aside. 
The  gentleman  who  was  backing  him  —  a  great  lover 
of  Byron  —  had  a  horse  which  he  was  going  to  lend 
for  the  big  scene.  It  had  been  bought  from  a  circus, 
was  a  clever  and  docile  beast,  would  arrive  in  a  few 
days  with  its  groom,  and  there  must  be  rehearsals. 
Did  Miss  Gray  understand  horses  ? 

She  had  ridden  when  a  child,  and  again  sometimes 
in  the  park  since  she  had  lived  in  London;  that  was 
her  sole  experience.  She  did  not  think  that  she  was 
a  coward,  but  if  she  had  known  what  she  would  be 
required  to  do  as  Mazeppa,  she  would  have  thought 
twice  before  taking  the  part. 

"I  hope  you  don't  accuse  me  of  unfairness  in  my 
treatment  of  you?"  asked  Mr.  Wantage.  "Every 
request  you  have  made  has  been  granted,  and  if  there 
is  anything  else " 

"Only  to  escape  from  that  scene,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible." J 

"That's  the  one  thing  that  isn't  possible.  Every- 
thing depends  upon  that.  Oh,  it  won't  be  half  as  bad 
as  you  think.  And  it  will  be  the  success  of  your  life. 
All  England  will  be  talking  about  you." 

There  was  little  consolation  in  that,  but  Winifred 
did  not  say  so.  When  she  wrote  to  her  mother  in 
the  evening,  she  did  not  mention  her  new  troubles. 
As  a  girl,  Mrs.  Gray  had  been  debarred  by  the  old- 


104  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

fashioned  prejudices  of  her  parents  from  reading 
Byron,  and  a  sentiment  had  kept  her  obedient  to  the 
memory  of  their  wishes  since,  therefore  Winifred 
was  sure  that  the  name  of  Mazeppa  had  been  no 
startling  revelation  to  her  mother. 

When  the  invalid  was  well  again,  then  the  require- 
ments of  the  part  might  be  gently  broken  to  her,  and 
the  best  made  of  them. 

After  all,  Winifred  could  not  obtain  permission 
to  go  to  town  on  Saturday,  but  a  telegram  was  await- 
ing her  after  the  long  hours  of  suspense  during 
rehearsal,  to  say  that  all  was  well.  The  operation  had 
been  successfully  performed.  On  Sunday  she  did  go 
to  London,  and  was  allowed  to  see  Mrs.  Gray,  though 
not  to  speak.  There  was  only  a  gentle  pressure  of 
the  hand,  and  a  meeting  of  the  eyes  which  said  as 
much  as  words;  but  it  was  hard  for  the  girl  to  go 
away  again,  knowing  that,  as  she  had  left  herself  so 
little  money,  she  could  not  afford  another  visit  until 
she  began  receiving  salary  once  more. 

To  her  relief,  nothing  further  was  said  about  the 
horse  for  some  days.  Then,  one  morning,  it  was 
announced  that  the  animal  had  arrived  in  Brighton,  but 
he  was  to  be  accustomed  to  the  stage  by  his  groom, 
who  would  rehearse  him  several  times  privately  before 
Miss  Gray  need  try  the  scene.  Would  she  care  to 
see  the  creature  meanwhile  ? 

At  first  she  refused,  for  the  thought  of  what  she 
must  be  prepared  to  do  was  hateful.  But  after  a  day 
or  two  a  kind  of  nervous  curiosity  triumphed,  and 
she  informed  Mr.  Jeffrey  that  she  would  like  to  be 
present  when  the  others  were  out  of  the  theater,  the 
next  time  that  the  animal  was  rehearsed  on  the  stage. 


A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME  105 

So  she  sat  in  a  box  and  watched  the  queer  scene 
with  an  unpleasant  fascination. 

The  footlights  were  lit,  that  the  horse  might  become 
accustomed  to  the  effect,  and  then  Winifred  heard 
the  echoing  ring  of  hoofs  on  wood.  The  horse  was 
in  the  wings,  being  got  ready  for  his  entrance.  Sud- 
denly he  dashed  on  at  a  gallop,  and  with  a  thump- 
ing of  the  heart  she  saw  that  a  slim  young  man,  almost 
a  boy,  was  strapped  across  the  creature's  back,  with  his 
head  hanging  down.  The  horse  went  through  various 
evolutions,  such  as  rearing  with  his  rider  and  flinging 
up  his  hind  legs  as  if  desiring  to  be  rid  of  the  burden, 
then  galloped  off  the  stage  again. 

This  was  Mazeppas  "great"  scene.  This  was 
what  she  —  Winifred  Gray  —  would  be  called  upon  to 
do.  It  seemed  even  more  horrifying  than  her  fancy 
had  painted  it. 

After  that  the  girl  looked  forward  with  shudder- 
ing to  her  own  first  rehearsal  with  the  formidable 
animal.  He  was  said  to  be  gentle,  yet  she  was  not 
reassured. 

But  at  last  the  dreaded  moment  came.  In  cycling 
"bloomers"  -since  a  skirt  was  impracticable  —  she 
was  strapped  to  the  horse's  back  as  the  groom  had 
been,  submitting  to  the  loathed  necessity  in  silence, 
with  white,  set  lips  —  for  she  was  not  a  girl  to  indulge 
in  hysterical  outcries.  The  groom  ran  by  the  horse's 
side  at  first,  then  retired  to  the  wings,  and  before  she 
had  realized  what  had  happened  the  ordeal  was  over 
for  the  day. 

By  this  time  the  company  had  been  rehearsing 
for  several  weeks.  They  had  all  been  measured  for 
their  costumes,  which  were  to  be  supplied  by  the 


io6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

management,  and  would  be  ready  in  time  for  a 
dress  rehearsal. 

Brighton  was  placarded  with  huge  colored  posters, 
and  Winifred's  name  was  to  be  seen  on  every  hoard- 
ing in  large  letters.  She  was  "starred,"  and  of  course, 
as  Mr.  Wantage  pointed  out,  it  would  do  her  a  great 
deal  of  good  in  the  profession.  To  be  a  "star"  was, 
in  his  opinion,  a  step  up  even  from  playing  Lady  Kitty. 

On  the  day  of  the  dress-rehearsal  all  was  sup- 
pressed excitement  at  the  theater.  The  costumes 
had  come,  and  were  very  handsome;  but  there  had 
been  one  mistake,  Winifred  was  informed.  "Your 
things  for  the  great  scene  were  forgotten  when  the 
rest  were  sent  off  from  the  costumer's  in  town,"  Mr. 
Wantage  said,  "but  I  have  telegraphed,  and  they'll 
be  here  in  time  for  the  night,  without  fail.  If  any- 
thing's  happened,  they'll  have  to  set  to  work  and 
finish  a  new  rig-out." 

"Why,  I  didn't  suppose  I  was  to  have  another 
costume  for  my  ride,"  exclaimed  Winifred.  "Surely 
it  isn't  necessary  —  and  won't  even  be  realistic  ?  You 
see,  I'm  a  prisoner  condemned  to  die.  Is  it  likely  I 
would  have  an  extra  suit  of  clothes  for  the  purpose  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  we're  rather  bound  by  convention  for 
that  scene,"  replied  Wantage,  not  looking  the  girl 
in  the  eyes.  "It  slipped  my  mind  to  say  anything 
about  dressing  it,  as  that  was  taken  for  granted. 
Exactly  the  same  costume  has  been  provided  for 
you,  and  made  from  your  measurements,  as  Ada 
Isaacs  Menken  wore  when  she  made  her  great  hit  in 
the  part." 

Winifred  said  no  more.  The  costumes  which  had 
already  arrived  were  modest  as  well  as  magnificent, 


A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME  107 

and  she  must  take  it  for  granted  that  this  other,  copied 
from  the  dress  of  the  once-famous  actress,  would  be 
equally  satisfactory. 

At  last  the  night  of  the  first  performance  came, 
and  Winifred,  cheered  by  favorable  news  of  her 
mother,  set  out  from  her  quiet  lodgings  for  the  theater. 

It  was  raining  a  cold,  sleety  rain,  but  this  would 
not  matter  to  the  management,  as  Mr.  Wantage  had 
told  Winifred  that  every  reserved  seat  in  the  house 
was  already  sold. 

As  she  came  near  to  the  theater  she  saw  that, 
despite  the  rain,  a  large  crowd  was  collected.  "  People 
must  be  waiting  for  the  pit  doors  to  open,"  she 
thought.  As  she  approached  on  her  way  to  the  stage 
entrance,  however,  she  found  that  they  were  not  form- 
ing a  line,  but  were  huddled  round  a  poster  at 
which  everyone  was  staring  on  tip-toe  over  each 
other's  shoulders. 

There  had  been  no  poster  in  that  place  before,  and 
Winifred  wondered  vaguely  what  it  could  be  which 
apparently  interested  so  many  people  at  once. 

She  would  have  liked  to  draw  closer  and  see  for 
herself,  as  she  knew  that,  if  it  were  a  picture,  it  must 
represent  some  scene  in  the  play.  But  it  was  not 
good  form  for  one  of  the  actresses  to  mingle  with  a 
crowd  in  the  street  in  front  of  the  theater,  so  she 
went  on  her  way,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  only 
crossing  to  reach  the  stage  door. 

Miss  Julia  Sinclair  stood  near  the  entrance,  read- 
ing letters,  for  it  was  early  still. 

"Have  you  seen  the  new  poster?"  she  asked,  with 
a  certain  eagerness,  her  eyes  on  Winifred's  face. 
Perhaps  she  had  lingered  over  her  letters  when  she 


io8  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

learned  that  Miss  Gray  had  not  yet  arrived,  in  the 
hope  of  asking  this  question  and  hearing  the  answer. 

"No,"  said  Winifred.  "But  I  saw  a  crowd  grouped 
round  something  which  looked  like  one.  Isn't  it 
rather  late  for  a  new  poster?'* 

"Better  late  than  never  for  such  a  striking  one  as 
this.  I  suppose  they  couldn't  get  it  ready  before — 
or  else  they  had  some  other  reason.  A  pity  you 
missed  it.  It  shows  Mazeppa  on  the  horse.  And  it 
has  your  name  underneath  in  red  and  black  letters  six 
inches  high  —  'Miss  Winifred  Gray  as  Mazeppa."1 

Winifred  was  annoyed,  for  though  she  had  grown 
fond  of  Selim,  the  clever  and  beautiful  "trick"  horse, 
she  hated  the  scene  almost  as  much  as  ever,  and  would 
have  preferred  not  to  be  identified  with  it  on  a  special 
poster.  With  a  quick  flash  of  intuition  she  was  ready 
to  believe  that  Mr.  Wantage  had  kept  back  the  pic- 
ture until  the  last  moment,  suspecting  how  she  would 
feel,  and  not  wishing  to  be  troubled  by  objections. 
But  she  did  not  give  Miss  Sinclair  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  annoyance. 

"It  must  be  a  fancy  portrait,"  she  said  quietly, 
"unless  some  one  'snapshotted'  me  in  those  wretched 
bloomers  of  mine  at  rehearsal." 

"Well,  it  isn't  much  of  a  likeness,"  rejoined  Miss 
Sinclair,  "but  the  effect  is  certainly  striking." 

"Is  the  dress  pretty?"  Winifred  asked,  already 
moving  away  toward  her  dressing-room  —  for  she 
had  not  her  own  maid  to  help  her  now,  and  must  not 
waste  too  much  time. 

Miss  Sinclair  laughed  out,  a  queer  little  giggle. 
"Lovely!"  she  answered.  "Lovely!" 

Farther  on  there  was  Mr.  Wantage,  who  had  been 


A  QUESTION  OF  COSTUME  109 

waiting  for  her.  The  costume  had  not  come  yet. 
There  had  been  a  hitch.  But  he  had  sent  a  man 
to  town,  who  would  be  back  with  it  in  his  hands  an 
hour  before  it  was  needed. 

Winifred  was  not  particularly  concerned.  She  did 
not  see  the  crucial  necessity  for  an  extra  dress.  She 
could  quite  well  go  through  the  horrid  scene  in  the  one 
she  had  worn  previously,  for  the  less  the  audience 
looked  at  her  during  those  moments  the  better  she 
would  be  pleased. 

By-and-by  she  heard  from  her  dressing-room  the 
ringing-in  of  the  orchestra  and  the  beginning  of  the 
overture.  She  was  not  excited  with  the  half-painful, 
half-delicious  excitement  she  had  always  known 
before  on  a  first  night  in  a  new  part,  yet  she  was  far 
from  calm.  There  was  a  twanging  of  the  nerves 
in  her  temples,  a  heavy  beating  of  the  heart  which 
caused  strange  little  qualms  of  faintness.  She  felt 
an  indefinite  sense  of  foreboding,  which  she  tried  to 
throw  ofF  by  telling  herself  that  there  was  nothing  so 
terrible  about  poor  Mazeppa  after  all;  and  besides, 
it  was  not  likely  that  anyone  she  particularly  cared 
for  would  have  come  from  town  to  Brighton  for  the 
production. 

But  this  was  not  enough.  She  could  not  shake  off 
the  brooding  misery  —  the  shadow  of  loneliness  and 
vague  terror. 

Just  as  she  was  ready  to  go  out  for  her  first  scene 
someone  knocked  at  the  door  and  pushed  in  a  parcel. 
"Your  costume's  come  at  last,"  said  a  voice,  and 
Winifred  took  the  box  that  was  hastily  handed  in 
to  her. 

But  she  could  not  wait  to  open  it  then.     Tossing 


i io  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  parcel  on  to  a  chair  she  hurried  away,  and  was 
only  just  in  time. 

Out  in  front  was  a  sea  of  faces.  The  house  was 
packed.  Winifred  saw  this  only  vaguely,  but  as  she 
appeared  upon  the  stage  someone  moved  in  the  pros- 
cenium box  and  let  fall  a  rose,  which  dropped  close  to 
her  feet.  Involuntarily  the  girl  looked  up,  and  met 
the  eyes  of  Lionel  Macaire. 


THE  SECRET  OUT 

WINIFRED  did  not  know  how  she  got  through  the 
scene.  It  was  only  mechanically  that  she  spoke  her 
lines.  For  her  there  was  but  one  man  in  the  audi- 
ence; the  man  who  had  done  his  best  to  ruin  her  life 
and  drive  her  out  of  the  sole  profession  in  which  she 
was  fitted  to  make  a  living.  "He  heard  that  I  was 
to  play  in  this,  and  so  he  came,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"He  hoped  that  the  sight  of  him  would  make  me 
break  down.  But  I  shan't  —  I  shan't." 

She  felt  if  only  she  could  escape  to  the  quiet  of 
her  own  dressing-room  and  think  for  a  moment  that 
she  might  steady  her  nerves  again;  and  when  at  last 
she  was  liberated  by  her  first  exit  speech  she  hurried 
almost  blindly  from  the  stage.  But  Mr.  Wantage 
blocked  the  way.  "Our  backer  wishes  to  be  intro- 
duced to  you,  Miss  Gray,"  he  said,  stopping  her  in 
the  comparative  dusk  of  the  wings.  Her  eyes  were 
still  dazzled  by  the  glitter  of  the  footlights  and  she 
only  saw,  for  an  instant,  that  there  was  another  man 
with  the  manager.  "Of  course  you  must  often  have 
heard  of  Mr.  Lionel  Macaire,"  he  went  on.  And 
at  the  sound  of  that  name  the  eyes  of  her  mind  were 
opened.  As  by  a  lightning  flash  in  dead  of  night 
all  that  had  puzzled  her,  all  that  had  lain  hidden  in 
comforting  darkness,  was  made  poignantly  clear. 


ii2  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Without  speaking  she  broke  away,  and  fled  to  her 
dressing-room.  She  pushed  the  door  shut,  and  lock- 
ing it  in  the  same  instant,  stood  still,  panting,  her 
forehead  damp  under  the  stage  make-up." 

"How's  the  piece  going,  Miss?"  asked  a  meek 
voice,  and,  hearing  it,  Winifred  started.  It  was  the 
"dresser"  employed  in  the  theater  who  assisted  such 
ladies  as  had  no  maids  of  their  own,  and  had  helped 
Winifred  to  get  into  her  costume  for  the  first  act. 
The  girl  had  forgotten  her  existence,  but  instantly 
she  controlled  herself  as  well  as  she  could. 

"Going?  Going?"  she  repeated  vaguely,  for  the 
woman's  question  had  scarcely  conveyed  an  idea  to 
her  mind.  "Oh — I'm  ill!  I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  do." 

"Have  a  drop  o'  brandy,  Miss.  I'll  send  out  for 
you,"  suggested  the  dresser,  accustomed  to  such  emer- 
gencies. "  You'll  be  all  right." 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Winifred.  "I  don't  want 
anything.  And  —  I  shan't  need  you.  You  can  go 
and  help  somebody  else." 

"  Well,  Miss,  if  you're  sure,  there's  plenty  as  wants 
me,"  answered  the  woman.  "But  I  thought  I'd  be 
here  ready,  as  I'd  been  tendin'  so  much  to  the  others 
at  first.  There's  your  new  costume,  Miss,  out  of  the 
box.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  have  it  put  out  and  save 
your  time,  though  there  is  the  next  scene  before  you 
dress." 

She  pointed,  and  Winifred  saw  something  pale  and 
pink  and  glimmering  hanging  over  the  back  of  a 
chair.  For  a  few  seconds  after  the  dresser  had 
softly  unlocked  the  door  and  departed  she  stood 
looking  at  the  delicately  tinted,  formless  mass,  half- 


THE  SECRET  OUT  113 

dazedly;  then  she  sprang  forward  and  snatched  it 
up  in  both  hands. 

What  she  held  was  a  complete  suit  of  silk  flesh- 
ings, made  to  cover  the  entire  body;  and  Winifred 
dropped  it  to  the  floor  with  a  little  choking  cry  of 
disgust,  as  if  the  thing  had  been  a  snake  and  writhed 
under  the  touch  of  her  fingers.  Then  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  stood  quivering. 

"Mazeppa,  pie-ease!"  the  call  boy  shouted.  Win- 
ifred did  not  hear. 

Five  minutes  passed,  and  she  had  not  moved.  She 
was  thinking  —  thinking,  when  a  thundering  knock 
at  the  door  tore  away  the  dark  evil  of  thought  in 
which  her  spirit  had  wrapped  itself. 

"  Miss  Gray,  what's  the  matter  ?  Good  gracious, 
they're  waiting  for  you  on  the  stage."  It  was  the 
voice  of  Jeffrey,  the  stage  manager. 

"I  can't  go  on  with  the  part,"  she  answered  brok- 
enly. "Something  has  happened.  I've  been  cheated 
—  deceived." 

"Nonsense!"  he  ejaculated  desperately,  and  pushed 
open  the  door.  "Who  would  have  thought  you 
were  one  of  the  hysterical  kind  ?  Come  on,  Miss  Gray; 
you've  got  to  come  on." 

"I  can't,"  she  panted.     "I  can't." 

His  answer  was  to  catch  her  round  the  waist  and 
pull  her  out  through  the  open  door.  "You  must 
be  mad,"  he  stuttered.  "I'll  have  to  use  force  with 
you.  You've  got  to  play.  Make  a  row  afterward 
if  you  must.  Do  you  want  to  ruin  us  all  —  Wantage, 
and  every  man  and  woman  in  the  company  ?  Come 
along;  I  tell  you  the  stage  is  waiting." 

Roughly  he  pushed  her  into  the  proper  entrance. 


ii4  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Again  she  was  blind,  giddy,  distracted.  Everything 
swam  round  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  knew 
that  she  had  been  sent  staggering  on  to  the  stage, 
every  eye  in  the  house  upon  her. 

All  the  actress  in  her  nature  rose  and  mastered 
shame  and  despair.  She  found  herself  answering 
her  cues,  saying  her  lines,  going  through  the  stereo- 
typed stage-business.  There  were  two  selves  that 
fought  together  —  one  raging  with  a  wild  rebellion 
against  the  vile  plot  which  had  trapped  her;  another 
that  was  like  a  cold,  unfeeling  piece  of  stage-mech- 
anism wound  up  to  do  a  certain  thing,  and  insisting 
upon  doing  it  though  the  world  rocked. 

So  the  end  of  the  act  came,  and  there  was  applause 
from  the  audience  and  the  clapping  of  a  pair  of  hands 
in  the  proscenium  box. 

Winifred  was  half  carried  off  the  stage  by  some 
one  of  the  actors  who  saw  that  she  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  what  she  did.  He  held  her  as  the  applause 
went  on,  growing  louder,  and  supported  her  before  the 
curtain  in  response  to  a  "call.'* 

Whether  the  old-fashioned  play  were  to  be  a  suc- 
cess or  not,  the  audience  was  taking  it  kindly.  Out 
in  front  they  were  talking  of  a  certain  poster,  and 
wondering  if  it  were  possible  that  the  real  scene  and 
costume  would  resemble  it,  when  Mazeppa  should 
appear  bound  to  the  horse. 

Behind  the  curtain,  Mazeppa  was  being  carried 
in  a  dead  faint  to  her  dressing-room. 

Marmaduke  Wantage  —  called  to  consultation  — 
and  the  stage  manager  were  both  in  a  state  border- 
ing upon  desperation.  "She's  shamming  —  the  little 
fiend!"  Jeffrey  hissed.  "She'd  go  to  any  lengths 


THE  SECRET  OUT  115 

to  get  out  of  it.  Better  not  have  kept  so  dark  about 
the  scene,  and  have  had  your  row  out  with  her  before- 
hand. Cat!  Idiot!  Prude!  What's  to  be  done,  now?" 

"Tell  the  dresser  to  get  the  things  on  to  her,  some- 
how, while  she's  unconscious,  and  take  everything 
else  away.  Then  you'll  have  her  on  the  horse  and 
out  on  the  stage  before  she  knows  what's  happened 
to  her,"  answered  Wantage,  furiously,  his  face  darkly 
flushed. 

He  was  not  in  his  "backer's"  secrets,  but  he  had 
some  suspicion  that  he  had  been  beckoned  from  his 
obscurity  for  a  very  special  reason.  There  were 
other  men  whose  names  and  reputation  would  have 
been  of  far  more  value  to  the  revival  of  this  ancient 
play  than  his;  and,  high  salary  or  low  salary,  it  was 
all  one  to  Mr.  Macaire,  if  he  chose  to  amuse  him- 
self by  paying  a  huge  bribe  to  buy  off  a  pantomime 
at  the  Thespian  Theater  of  Brighton,  and  put  on  a 
musty  old  piece  which  everyone  else  had  forgotten 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago. 

After  a  while  Wantage  had  begun  shrewdly  to 
guess  that  there  was  method  of  some  sort  in  the 
millionaire's  seeming  madness,  and  presently  to  real- 
ize that  the  whole  production  was  but  a  gigantic 
bait  to  lure  one  pretty  little  fish. 

But  that  discovery  mattered  nothing  to  him.  He 
had  got  his  chance  to  be  in  the  swim  again,  and  he 
was  earning  more  money  in  a  few  weeks  than  he  had 
been  able  to  beg  or  borrow  during  the  years  in  which 
he  had  been  down  under  the  deep  waters.  Marma- 
duke  Wantage  was  utterly  unscrupulous  where  he 
had  any  advantage  to  gain  for  himself.  Lionel 
Macaire  had  chosen  his  man  well.  And  now  Wantage 


ii6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

was  determined  that  his  patron's  mysterious  scheme, 
whatever  it  might  be  (exactly  what  it  really  was  he 
had  never  been  quite  sure),  should  not  fail  in  the 
very  moment  of  fruition. 

He  had  obeyed  instructions  to  the  letter  in  his 
treatment  of  Miss  Gray  —  what  he  had  told  her  and 
what  he  had  kept  from  her;  and  he  was  certain  that 
if  she  did  not  go  obediently  through  her  part  on  this 
night  before  the  crowded  house  out  there,  he  would 
be  the  scapegoat  in  the  millionaire's  eyes. 

"  All  the  better  if  she's  fainting,"  he  went  on,  when 
Jeffrey  was  silent,  biting  his  lips.  "The  horse  plays 
the  scene,  not  Mazeppa." 

"  By  Jove,  I  haven't  the  heart  for  it.  It's  too  steep !" 
exclaimed  the  other.  "  This  is  going  to  make  a  scandal, 
and  you  and  I  won't  be  the  whiter  for  it,  old  man." 

"You're  stage  manager,  and  it's  your  place  to  see 
that  everything  goes  right,"  said  Wantage  threaten- 
ingly. "  You  don't  want  to  make  an  enemy  of  Macaire, 
do  you  ?  He  would  be  a  bad  one." 

Jeffrey,  who  was  another  man  with  a  past,  and  a 
dilapidated  present,  remembered  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. After  all,  the  girl  was  a  fool.  As  good  women 
as  she  had  appeared  in  the  sort  of  costume  —  or  lack 
of  it  —  which  she  affected  to  abhor,  and  would  so 
appear  again.  He  was  even  less  in  Lionel  Macaire's 
confidence  than  Wantage,  being  ignorant  that  the 
actress  and  the  millionaire  had  ever  met  before  to-night, 
and  he  supposed,  in  scorn,  that  the  girl  had  seen  fit 
to  faint  merely  because  she  did  not  wish  to  wear  a 
certain  kind  of  garment.  It  was  her  business  to  do 
what  was  required  of  her,  and  he  would  see  that  it 
was  done,  with  her  will  or  without  it. 


THE  SECRET  OUT  117 

The  dresser  was  summoned,  and  told  that  Miss 
Gray  must  be  got  ready  for  the  next  scene.  As  she 
had  fainted,  and  could  not  help  herself,  she  must  be 
treated  as  if  she  were  an  infant.  And  no  time  must 
be  lost,  as  the  next  scene  was  the  most  important  one 
in  the  play. 

A  sovereign  was  slipped  into  the  dresser's  palm, 
and  she  promised  that,  whether  Miss  Gray  waked  up 
or  not,  she  should  be  ready  when  she  was  wanted,  so 
far  as  clothing  was  concerned.  Then  she  locked  the 
door,  and  stolidly  set  about  her  task. 

For  a  time  Winifred's  body  was  as  limp  in  her 
hands  as  if  the  girl  had  been  dead,  but  as  the  work 
progressed  a  perceptible  shuddering  thrilled  through 
the  delicate  limbs,  and  the  bosom  rose  and  fell  with 
a  sobbing  breath. 

The  dresser  paused  for  an  instant,  looking  critic- 
ally down  at  the  dark  line  of  curled  lashes.  "She'll 
be  coming  to  herself  before  I'm  done  with  this,"  was 
her  thought.  "I  wonder  what'll  happen  then  ?" 

As  she  wondered  there  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the 
door.  The  woman  rose,  and  opening  it  an  inch  or 
two,  peeped  out. 

"Here's  a  note  for  Miss  Gray,"  whispered  Mr. 
Wantage.  "Give  it  to  her  immediately,  if  she  regains 
her  consciousness  before  it's  time  for  her  next  scene. 
In  that  case  there'll  be  an  answer.  If  she  has  to  go 
on  as  she  is,  you  can  hand  the  letter  back  to  me." 

He  pushed  an  envelope  addressed  in  pencil  through 
the  narrow  opening,  and  the  dresser  took  it.  Then, 
turning  back  to  her  charge,  she  saw  that  the  young 
actress's  eyes  were  wide  open. 

The  girl  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  opposite  a  long  mirror, 


ii8  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

and  upon  her  own  reflection  there  her  gaze  was  fixed 
with  horror. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  dream  —  but  it's  true,  after 
all.  What  have  you  —  been  doing  to  me?"  she 
gasped. 

"There,  there,  ducky,"  cooed  the  old  woman, 
"nothing  at  all  but  helping  you  to  get  ready  for  your 
big  scene,  because  time  pressed  and  you  weren't  able 
to  do  anything  for  yourself.  And  here's  a  letter 
that's  just  been  sent  in  to  you  by  some  friend  outside. 
Better  open  it  now  you're  awake  again,  and  maybe 
there'll  be  a  word  of  comfort." 

"A  word  of  comfort!"  the  girl  echoed  bitterly. 
"There's  no  such  thing  for  me." 

But  she  took  the  letter,  and  with  hands  that  were 
cold  and  trembling  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"My  darling,"  she  read,  the  words  hastily  scrawled 
in  pencil,  "they  tell  me  that  you  object  to  go  through 
the  scene  that  is  coming  —  you  will  know  what  I  mean. 
If  you  can  care  for  me  at  all  you  will  feel  free  to  follow 
the  dictates  of  your  own  heart.  Then,  you  will  know 

that  I  am  thinking Forget  that  you  owe  a  penny; 

forget  the  contract  you  have  signed.  The  debt  shall  be 
canceled,  the  contract  torn  in  pieces.  What  is  a 
miserable  hundred  pounds  of  salary,  what  are  the  thous- 
ands spent  upon  the  revival  of  this  play  —  what  is 
anything  in  this  world  when  weighed  against  a  tear  or 
smile  of  yours  ? 

"If  you  can  care  for  me,  you  will  be  glad  that  I  am 
thinking  this,  and  there  will  be  nothing  on  earth 
that  you  cannot  take  from  me,  or  let  me  do  for  you. 
But  if  you  still  hate  me  as  you  once  thought  you  did, 
if  I  am  still  'horrible'  and  you  'loathe  me/  then  I 


THE  SECRET  OUT  119 

know  you  cannot  avoid  remembering  the  money  you 
have  accepted,  the  contract  you  have  signed,  and  you, 
being  an  honorable  girl,  will  feel  that  you  must  earn 
the  one  and  carry  out  the  other. 

"  Send  me  a  line,  or  even  a  word,  to  make  me  happy, 
and  the  curtain  may  ring  down  and  the  audience  be 
sent  away  for  all  I  care,  though  enough  money  has 
been  spent  on  scenery,  costumes,  and  rent,  to  keep 
a  dozen  poor  families  in  comfort  for  a  year.  And  it  has 
been  all  for  you,  to  make  you  a  '  star, '  though  I  fear  me 
much  that  my  efforts  to  advance  my  love  have  not  yet 
been  appreciated  by  you.  Still,  the  world  appreciates 
them  at  something  like  their  full  value.  One  or  two 
newspapers  have  got  hold  of  the  fact  that  my  money 
is  behind  this  company,  and  our  friends  are  saying  — 
which  is  the  truth  —  that  I  am  doing  it  all  for  you. 
Since  this  is  being  said,  therefore,  why  not  let  me  do  a 
thousand  times  more  for  you  —  relieve  you  of  every 
anxiety  both  for  this  evening  and  all  future  days?" 

The  letter  was  not  signed,  but  well  did  Winifred  know 
who  had  written  it;  and  the  keen,  poisoned  dagger- 
point  in  every  line  went  home,  drawing  heart's  blood. 

Under  the  velvet  glove  was  the  hand  of  iron,  with 
talons  that  pinched  her  very  soul.  How  he  reminded 
her  of  her  obligations,  and  made  it  plain  that  they 
were  all  owing  to  him.  How  he  dangled  temptation 
before  her  eyes  —  escape  from  the  net  in  which  he 
had  first  enmeshed  her,  and  his  millions  for  her  little 
fingers  to  dip  into  at  will.  How  he  emphasized  his 
arguments  by  his  stealthy  hint  that,  since  the  world 
knew  of  his  admiration  and  would  at  all  events  believe 
it  reciprocated,  there  was  the  less  reason  to  hold  back. 


izo  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Only  a  word,  which  she  could  deny  afterwards, 
and  those  two  horrible  men,  Wantage  and  Jeffrey, 
would  let  her  alone.  There  would  be  no  more  tor- 
turing persuasion,  no  more  attempts  at  actual  force. 
He  had  said  that  he  would  "bring  her  to  him  on  her 
knees."  Now  he  almost  saw  her  at  his  feet. 

Winifred  felt  physically  very  weak.  Her  eyes 
traveled  again  to  the  mirror,  and  she  shivered  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  saw  herself  decked  by  the  old 
woman's  hands  for  the  sacrifice.  If  she  fainted 
again  they  would  do  what  they  chose  with  her.  She 
would  be  carried  out,  bound  on  Selim's  back,  and  all 
those  terrible  eyes  in  the  audience  would  see  her  — 
like  that.  And  she  might  faint.  She  had  suffered  a 
very  great  shock  to-night,  and  besides,  for  days  she 
had  been  half-starving  herself  to  make  the  five  guin- 
eas last  until  salary  should  begin  once  more.  She 
had  had  nothing  to  eat  that  day  but  bread  and  cocoa. 

Supposing  she  sent  Lionel  Macaire  the  message 
he  wanted  ?  Somehow  she  could  hide  herself  after- 
wards; and  she  would  work  hard  —  oh,  so  hard,  until 
she  could  pay  back  every  penny  of  his  money  which 
she  had  and  spent  —  a  hundred  pounds,  as  he  reminded 
her.  Surely  if  ever  it  were  right  to  do  evil  that  good 
might  come  it  would  be  right  now. 

"The  gentleman  said  there'd  be  an  answer,"  sug- 
gested the  dresser. 

"Tell  him — "  began  Winifred;  but  her  voice 
died  away.  Then  her  eyes  lightened,  and  her  droop- 
ing head  suddenly  lifted.  "That  is  my  answer!" 
she  exclaimed,  and  tore  the  letter  into  pieces,  folding 
it  again,  and  tearing  again,  until  the  tiny  white  squares 
fell  to  the  floor  in  a  fluttering  shower,  like  a  miniature 


THE  SECRET  OUT  121 

stage  snowstorm.  "When  you  are  asked  for  my  answer 
you  can  tell  them  what  I  did.  And  now  please  go  away. 
I  shall  take  off  these  hateful  things  that  you  have  put 
on  me,  and  dress  myself  to  go  home.  And  I  would 
rather  be  alone  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  Miss,  you  must  play  the  scene,  you  know," 
urged  the  woman.  "And  it's  so  close  now.  When 
they  sent  me  in  to  you,  there  was  but  half-an-hour  first, 
and  I  worked  as  fast  as  I  could.  Only  think,  the  other 
ladies  and  gentlemen  are  on  the  stage  now.  They'll 
soon  be  ready  for  you,  and  it  won't  do  for  me  to  let 
you  be  late.  You'd  never  be  allowed  to  go  home:  and 
just  think  how  bad  it  would  be  to  be  sued  for  breach  of 
contract.  They'd  make  you  pay  a  lot  of  damages. 
Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  pounds,  maybe." 

"I  couldn't  pay,"  desperately  retorted  Winifred. 
"I  should  have  no  money." 

"Then  they  would  put  you  in  prison,"  said  the  old 
woman,  far  more  intent  on  persuading  her  charge 
to  be  sensible  than  upon  accuracy  of  statement.  She 
really  did  believe  what  she  said,  and  the  girl  in  her 
ignorance  could  offer  no  contradiction. 

They  could  put  her  in  prison!  Perhaps  that  was 
what  Lionel  Macaire  had  been  working  for  all  through. 
It  would  surely  kill  her  mother. 

At  the  thought  of  the  dear  little  loving  woman, 
who  was  thinking  of  her  now  at  this  very  moment, 
far  away  in  that  nursing  home  in  London,  it  was  as 
if  a  great  hand  had  grasped  Winifred's  heart  and 
squeezed  it.  With  a  sob  she  broke  into  a  storm  of 
crying.  "Oh,  mother,  mother!"  she  sobbed.  "Shall 
I,  who  love  you  so,  be  the  one  to  kill  you  ?  Will  no 
one  help,  will  no  one  save  me  from  this  horror?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  GREAT  SCENE  —  AND  AFTER 

MR.  JEFFREY  gave  Mrs.  Purdy,  the  dresser,  as 
much  time  as  he  could  conveniently  allow,  and  then 
he  returned  to  the  door.  "How  do  you  get  on?" 
he  inquired  anxiously.  "  Is  it  going  to  be  all  right  ? " 

"I  get  on  as  well  as  you  might  expect,  sir,"  came 
the  old  woman's  voice  in  reply.  "'Twill  be  all  right. 
Don't  you  fear." 

"I  can't  give  you  longer  than  five  minutes  more, 
I'm  afraid,"  he  answered.  "Can  you  manage  with 
that?" 

"Needs  must,  when  somebody  drives,"  he  could 
hear  an  irreverent  mumble  from  within. 

Not  far  away  stood  the  horse,  Selim,  held  by  his 
groom.  The  animal  was  used  to  the  wings  now  and 
the  lights  and  sounds  of  loud  voices  on  the  adjacent 
stage,  so  that  he  was  quiet  enough.  The  strapping- 
gear  was  right.  Nothing  remained  but  for  Mazeppa 
to  be  fastened  on  the  beautiful  black  horse's  back, 
when  his  skin  of  jetty  satin  would  make  a  marvel- 
ously  effective  background  for  the  slim,  apparently 
nude  figure  thrown  across  it. 

Jeffrey  listened  eagerly  to  what  was  going  on  upon 
the  stage.  They  were  "working  up"  with  every 
word  now  to  Mazeppa's  thrilling  entrance,  which 
was  bound  to  stir  the  audience,  shocking  some,  pleas- 


THE  GREAT  SCENE  — AND  AFTER    123 

ing  others.  It  occurred  to  him  as  he  stood  impatiently 
waiting,  that  this  was  a  much  better  version  than 
the  old  one,  and,  as  he  had  altered  it,  under  advice 
from  Mr.  Macaire  and  Wantage,  he  was  entitled  to 
take  some  credit  to  himself.  If  only  all  went  well 
with  this  one  scene,  prosperous  days  might  come  back 
for  him. 

Everyone  knew  that  the  millionaire  was  interested 
in  several  theaters  in  London  and  in  the  provinces, 
and  he  controlled  two  or  three  powerful  papers  as 
well.  Wantage  was  right;  Macaire  was  a  man  to  be 
conciliated. 

Four  minutes  passed,  and  he  could  remain  passive 
no  longer.  He  went  back  to  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room  which  had  Winifred  Gray's  name  printed  neatly 
on  a  card,  tacked  on  the  raised  space  between  the  panels. 

"Time's  up!"  he  announced,  with  a  warning  rap. 
"I  really  must  have  Miss  Gray  now." 

"Dead  or  alive,  eh,  sir  ?"  came  from  the  other  side. 

"Yes — if  there  was  a  question  of  dying.  I  must 
have  her  conscious  or  unconscious.  The  stage  can't 
be  kept  waiting  again.  They're  playing  slow  now, 
and  by  Jove,  if  Mazeppa  and  that  horse  aren't  ready 
to  go  on,  there'll  be  some  lively  faking  —  which  means 
the  play'll  be  a  failure,  certain." 

"Give  me  just  three  minutes  longer,  can't  you?" 
pleaded  Mrs.  Purdy.  "Them  silk  tights  is  the  dick- 
ens and  all  to  get  on  another  person  that's  in  a  dead 
faint  —  no  more  life  in  her  limbs  than  a  doll.  But 
we're  most  ready.  And  a  real  picture  she'll  be,  I  do 
assure  you,  sir." 

"Then  for  goodness'  sake  don't  stick  there  with 
your  mouth  at  the  door,  but  go  back  and  finish  your 


124  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

'picture/"  growled  Jeffrey,  who  would  have  yelled 
instead,  if  there  had  not  been  an  audience  in  the 
house  with  ears  quick  to  hear  any  over-loud  sounds 
behind  the  scenes. 

By  this  time  Selim  was  getting  restless,  and  stamp- 
ing his  iron-shod  hoofs. 

Jeffrey  went  to  him  and  occupied  the  interval  he 
had  extended  for  Mrs.  Purdy  in  talking  to  the  groom 
and  soothing  the  horse  with  a  lump  of  sugar  bor- 
rowed from  one  of  the  stage  hands.  But  he  did  not 
forget  when  the  promised  three  minutes  were  up, 
and,  with  a  glance  at  his  watch,  he  was  off  again  to 
Miss  Gray's  door. 


He  knocked,  and  on  this  occasion,  somewhat  to 
his  surprise,  the  door  yielded  under  the  pressure  of 
his  knuckles.  Not  only  had  it  been  unlocked  at  last, 
but  slightly  opened  as  well.  Taking  advantage  of 
this,  he  impatiently  thrust  in  his  head. 

There  stood  Mrs.  Purdy,  leisurely  hanging  up  the 
pieces  of  the  actress's  last-worn  costume  which  she  had 
taken  from  the  fainting  girl,  and,  in  her  hurry,  strewn 
over  the  floor.  Her  present  movements  suggested 
calmness  of  mind  and  plenty  of  time  for  all  that  need 
be  done. 

With  one  eager  sweep  of  his  eyes,  Jeffrey  took 
in  the  whole  room.  He  had  laid  Winifred  on  the 
sofa,  when  putting  her  in  the  dresser's  charge,  but 
she  was  not  there  now.  The  place  offered  little  or 
no  chance  of  concealment;  yet  he  could  see  the  girl 
nowhere. 


THE  GREAT  SCENE  —  AND  AFTER  125 

His  face  fell  into  utter  blankness,  then  darkened 
into  fury. 

"What's  this  mean?"  he  ejaculated.  "Where's 
Miss  Gray?" 

The  old  woman  turned  and  gave  back  his  look 
coolly,  her  eyebrows  rounded  in  surprise. 

"Don't  get  in  a  wax,  sir,"  she  responded.  "The 
poor  young  lady  came  to  herself  just  as  we  were  fin- 
ishing, had  a  drop  out  of  that  very  brandy  bottle  as 
ever  was"  (indicating  with  a  motion  of  her  head  a 
black  bottle  standing  among  scattered  "make-up" 
on  the  dressing-table)  "and  felt  quite  well  and  sensi- 
ble. Says  she, '  I  can  go  out  by  myself.  Just  you  pick 
up  my  bits  of  things,'  and  out  she  goes.  I  wonder 
you  didn't  meet  her,  sir." 

"Good  gracious!"  was  Jeffrey's  only  answer.  He 
darted  away,  almost  pushing  down  the  big  screen 
which  had  been  put  up  in  front  of  Selim,  that  the 
process  of  strapping  Mazeppa  on  the  horse's  back 
need  not  be  stared  at  by  every  passing  stage-hand. 

It  was  possible  that  Winifred  might  have  gone 
straight  to  this  corner,  which  had  always  been  put  to 
the  same  use  during  her  rehearsals  with  Selim,  though, 
if  so,  it  was  strange  indeed  that  he  (Jeffrey)  had  missed 
seeing  her. 

But  there  stood  the  groom  and  the  horse,  in  the 
semi-dusk;  and  there  was  no  one  beside. 

"Cutting  it  rather  fine,  ain't  she,  sir  ?"  asked  Selim's 
attendant,  who  knew  all  the  cues  by  this  time  as  well 
as  did  the  actors. 

"Cutting  it  fine,  I  should  think  so!"  groaned  the 
stage  manager.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  go  out 
of  sight  of  Winifred  Gray's  door  for  an  instant !  What 


i26  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

a  double-dyed  ass  he  had  been  to  trust  to  the  common 
sense  of  a  drunken  old  woman!  (This  aspersion  was  a 
grave  injustice  to  the  respectable  Mrs.  Purdy;  but  it 
was  a  necessity  to  revile  some  one,  and  she  answered 
as  well  as  another  for  a  scapegoat.) 

Jeffrey  tore  back  to  the  dressing-room,  for  there  was 
time  even  yet,  if  that  fiend  of  a  girl  could  be  found 
and  dragged  to  her  duty. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  which  way  did  she  go?"  he 
adjured  the  dresser,  who  was  still  calmly  putting  the 
room  to  rights  —  brushing,  shaking,  folding,  hanging. 

"I  don't  know,"  retorted  the  old  woman.  "I'd 
done  all  you  told  me  to.  When  she  went  out  by  this 
door,  sir,  she  was  off  my  hands." 

With  an  oath  Jeffrey  flung  away.  He  had  no 
time  to  bandy  words  with  this  stupid  old  creature. 
The  girl  might  still  be  somewhere  about  the  stage. 

Half  mad  with  impatience,  he  hurried  this  way 
and  that.  Every  nook,  every  corner  was  searched; 
not  an  empty  dressing-room  was  forgotten.  But 
Winifred  was  not  to  be  found,  and  the  moments  were 
flying.  Already  it  was  close  upon  the  cue  for 
Mazeppa's  sensational  entrance.  Wantage,  who  had 
been  in  the  box  with  Macaire,  was  behind  the  scenes 
again  now,  in  a  passion  of  rage,  blaming  the  stage 
manager,  swearing  at  everyone. 

When  there  could  be  no  further  waiting,  Jeffrey 
desperately  played  the  card  which,  all  this  time,  he 
had  been  keeping  up  his  sleeve. 

From  the  moment,  weeks  ago,  that  he  had  been 
warned  not  to  mention  to  Miss  Gray  the  kind  of 
attire  she  would  be  required  to  wear  in  her  "great" 
scene,  he  had  feared  a  hitch  at  the  last  moment.  Of 


THE  GREAT  SCENE  —  AND  AFTER    127 

course,  it  was  vital  to  the  success  of  the  play  that  she 
herself  should  appear  strapped  upon  the  horse;  but 
from  the  stage  manager's  point  of  view,  at  least,  any- 
thing was  better  than  that  a  scene  should  be  left  out, 
or  the  curtain  rung  down  in  the  midst  of  an  act  on 
flat  failure. 

That  this  might  not  happen,  if  the  worst  came  to 
worst,  Jeffrey,  had  secretly  prepared  an  understudy, 
of  whose  readiness  he  had  not  chosen  to  speak  even 
to  Wantage,  lest  it  should  seem  a  confession  of  weak- 
ness —  a  fear  that  his  authority  as  stage  manager 
might  not  be  enough  to  dominate  a  rebellious  actress. 

If  Winifred  herself  had  known  the  truth,  of  course, 
it  would  have  been  fatal;  she  would  have  said,  "Let 
the  understudy  do  it."  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  one 
of  the  ladies  in  the  ballet  to  whom  he  had  taken  rather 
a  fancy,  and  whose  figure  somewhat  resembled  Wini- 
fred Gray's,  was  at  this  moment  dressed  for  the  scene 
in  fleshings  from  neck  to  foot,  and  with  a  wig  like 
Mazeppa's.  She  was  called,  flung  upon  the  horse, 
strapped  on,  and  just  in  time  not  to  be  late  for  the  cue, 
Selim  galloped  upon  the  stage  with  his  living  burden. 

Lionel  Macaire  sat  in  his  box,  half  hidden  by  the 
curtains,  yet  leaning  eagerly  forward.  He,  too,  knew 
the  cue  for  the  great  entrance,  and  —  ignorant  of  the 
latest  development  since  Wantage  had  left  him  —  his 
eyes  had  not  for  some  moments  strayed  from  the  stage. 

He  heard  the  galloping  hoofs  in  the  wings;  then 
the  noble  black  horse,  with  a  pearly-pink,  slim  body 
thrown  across  his  back,  sprang  into  sight. 

Macaire's  lips  were  apart.  He  uttered  a  faint, 
hissing  breath,  which  gave  a  vent  to  strong  emotion 
long  pent  up. 


i28  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"They've  made  her  do  it!"  he  said  between  his 
teeth. 

Then  he  looked  closer,  bending  out  of  the  box, 
deaf  to  the  murmurs  that  went  round  the  audience 
below.  In  the  rage  of  disappointment  at  realizing 
his  mistake  he  could  have  shouted  oaths  aloud.  But 
he  had  succeeded  in  doing  many  things  in  his  eventful 
life  by  sheer  force  of  self-control,  and  he  had  seldom 
lost  it  unless  he  chose  deliberately  to  let  himself  go. 
He  did  not  lose  it,  or  let  himself  go  now. 

So  quickly  did  the  scene  pass  by  that  few  in  the 
audience  were  certain  that  the  figure  on  the  horse 
was  a  mere  understudy  for  Mazeppa.  Some  said 
that  it  was  Miss  Gray  herself;  others  vowed  that  it 
was  another  girl  in  her  place. 

From  the  stage  manager's  standpoint  the  act  was 
saved,  whatever  might  have  to  happen  later;  but  to 
Lionel  Macaire  the  substitution  of  an  understudy 
for  the  girl  whom  he  had  meant  to  shame  and  humil- 
iate was  only  an  aggravation.  He  cared  nothing 
whether  the  play  went  on  or  was  stopped  in  the  midst 
of  the  first  night.  It  was  only  Winifred  he  had  thought 
of  from  the  beginning. 

No  answer  had  come  to  the  note  he  had  sent  behind 
the  scenes,  and  in  this  case  he  knew  well  enough 
that  silence  did  not  mean  consent.  If  Winifred  had 
intended  to  fling  herself  upon  his  mercy  she  would 
have  replied  with  a  written  line  or  verbal  message. 
And  no  word  having  been  deigned,  he  had  believed 
Wantage's  assurance  that  the  girl  would  go  through 
the  scene  on  the  horse,  even  if  she  had  to  be 
forced  to  it. 

The  instant  he  saw  that  the  slight,  apparently  nude 


THE  GREAT  SCENE— AND  AFTER    129 

figure  bound  to  Selim's  back  was  not  Winifred  Gray's, 
he  rose  from  his  seat  without  showing  signs  of  haste, 
and  left  the  box. 

Behind  it  was  a  door  which  led  through  a  short 
passage  to  the  stage,  and  the  first  person  he  met  there 
was  Jeffrey. 

"  Why  did  not  Miss  Gray  play  that  scene  ? "  Macaire 
questioned  sternly.  Grotesquely  ugly  at  all  times, 
he  was  appallingly  hideous  when  in  a  passion,  and, 
though  his  voice  was  merely  cold,  Jeffrey  saw  by  the 
purple  face  and  the  jelly-like  quivering  of  the  marred 
features  that  the  millionaire's  wrath  was  held  in  check 
by  an  effort. 

"Miss  Gray  can't  be  found;  she's  disappeared," 
the  stage  manager  stammered,  his  castles  in  the  air 
rocking  on  their  foundation,  built  above  this  rich 
man's  money  and  favor. 

Then  Lionel  Macaire  muttered  an  oath  between 
his  teeth.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  "Wan- 
tage came  out  and  told  me  that  the  girl  had  fainted, 
but  was  being  dressed  for  the  scene,  and  would  be 
put  through  it  somehow,  without  fail.  He  had  your 
word  for  it  —  as  stage  manager.  What  do  you  mean, 
then,  by  saying  she  has  disappeared  ?" 

Jeffrey  did  not  dare  to  lose  his  temper,  though 
he  had  a  hot  one,  quickly  fired.  "It  is  a  most  mys- 
terious affair,"  he  answered.  "I  don't  know  what  to 
think  of  it.  But  certainly  I  am  not  to  blame.  And, 
if  Miss  Gray  isn't  found,  her  understudy  can  get 
through  somehow,  though  it  will  be  a  great  mis- 
fortune —  on  the  first  night,  of  all  nights.  The  only 
thing  will  be  to  go  out  before  the  curtain  and  make 
a  careful  announcement,  working  up  some  sensation 


130  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

that  will  fetch  the  newspapers  and  rouse  the  public's 
curiosity.  It  may  even  create  a  certain  boom." 

"Boom  be  d  —  d!"  ejaculated  Macaire.  "The 
girl's  played  you  false,  then  ?  But  what  a  fool  you 
were  to  let  it  happen!  Do  you  remember  it  is  my 
money  you've  been  letting  her  make  ducks  and 
drakes  of?" 

"She's  certain  to  be  found,"  faltered  Jeffrey,  droop- 
ing under  the  millionaire's  anger.  "She  can't  pos- 
sibly have  left  the  theater.  If  you'll  come  with  me, 
Mr.  Macaire,  to  her  dressing-room  door,  where  Mr. 
Wantage  is  catechising  the  woman  who  had  charge 
of  her  after  she  fainted,  you'll  understand  that  it  must 
be  so." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  other,  and  together  they 
walked  across  the  stage,  behind  the  setting  which 
was  going  up  for  the  next  act.  As  Jeffrey  had  stated, 
Mr.  Wantage,  afraid  to  go  out  and  face  his  patron 
after  what  had  happened,  was  standing  in  the  open 
doorway  of  Winifred  Gray's  dressing-room,  talking 
excitedly  to  Mrs.  Purdy.  At  sight  of  Macaire  advanc- 
ing upon  him  he  flushed  darkly,  then  grew  pale. 

"This  is  a  mystery,  Mr.  Macaire!"  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  shaking  voice.  "Miss  Gray  has  disappeared. 
A  most  obstinate  girl.  I  knew  that  she  objected  to 
go  through  the  scene  in  the  only  suitable  way,  and 
Jeffrey  knew  it.  But  we " 

"Be  kind  enough  to  state  exactly  what  occurred 
after  Miss  Gray  fainted,"  Macaire  broke  in,  address- 
ing the  woman  without  a  glance  at  Wantage.  "She 
was  then  brought  into  this  room,  was  she  not,  and 
placed  in  your  charge?" 

"Yes,  sir,  she  was,  sir,"  returned  the  dresser,  star- 


THE  GREAT  SCENE  — AND  AFTER  131 

ing  at  the  hideous  face  of  the  man  with  undisguised 
astonishment,  even  repulsion.  She  did  not  know  that, 
though  so  villainously  ugly  to  look  upon,  he  was 
worth  a  thousand  times  his  weight  in  solid  gold. 
Macaire  was  not  so  uncommon  a  name  that  she  should 
associate  him  with  millionaire  Lionel  of  that  ilk,  even  if 
she  heard  him  addressed  by  Wantage  or  Jeffrey, 
and  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  was  to  be  fawned 
upon.  "Ugly  beast!  I  wonder  what  the  dickens 
he  means  by  poking  his  nose  into  it  ? "  she  was  prob- 
ably asking  herself.  "Who's  he,  anyhow?"  And, 
aloud,  she  inquired,  "Are  you  Miss  Gray's  father  or 
—  or  anything,  sir?" 

"  I  am  —  a  friend  of  her  family.  And  I  am,  unfor- 
tunately, financially  interested  in  this  company,"  the 
great  man  condescended  to  explain.  "It  is  not  pleas- 
ant hearing  that  the  star  has  run  away  on  the  first 
night." 

"She  can't  have  run  far,"  cut  in  Jeffrey.  "This 
woman  here  will  tell  you  that." 

Lionel  Macaire  looked  at  Mrs.  Purdy,  and  she 
accepted  the  look  as  her  cue  to  speak.  "I  managed 
to  get  the  young  lady  into  the  things  she  was  to  ride 
the  horse  in,  sir,  when  she  was  fainting.  And  a  rare 
job  it  was,  too." 

"What  happened  then?"  questioned  Macaire. 

"Why,  this  gentleman,  the  stage  manager,  sir,  he 
kept  comin'  to  the  door  and  worrittin'  me,  till  I  thought 
I  should  have  gone  off  my  head.  But,  finally,  I  did 
have  the  young  lady  ready,  and  at  the  last  moment, 
as  I  was  tellin'  him,  she  popped  open  those  great  eyes 
of  hers.  She'd  been  wild  about  the  fleshin's  before, 
sir,  sayin*  nothin*  on  earth  would  induce  Jer  to  put 


132  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

'em  on.  But  she  seemed  wonderful  calmed  down  like, 
after  her  faintin'  spell,  and,  says  she  —  let  me  see, 
what  was  it  she  says  first  ?  —  oh !  'If  you've  got  a 
drop  of  spirit  handy  I  think  I  could  go  on  all  right  and 
do  the  scene/  Those  were  her  very  words/' 

"And   then?" 

"Well,  and  then,  sir,  I  gave  her  the  spirit.  There's 
the  very  bottle  on  the  'make-up'  table.  'Twas  my 
own;  I'd  bought  it  on  purpose,  thinkin*  it  might  be 
needed  —  which  it  was.  When  my  daughter  faints 
away,  sir,  which  she  does  sometimes,  without  no  warn- 
in'  at  all " 

"Never  mind  about  your  daughter  at  present," 
interpolated  Macaire,  his  curious,  pale  eyes  fixed  keenly 
on  the  woman's  commonplace  little  face.  "You 
gave  Miss  Gray  the  spirit,  and " 

"And  up  she  jumped,  most  as  soon  as  'twas  down. 
'I  believe  I've  been  silly,'  she  says  to  me.  'I  don't 
like  this,  but  I've  got  to  do  it/  You  see,  I'd  been 
tellin'  her  how  she'd  be  sued  for  breach  of  contract, 
and  if  she'd  no  money,  she'd  be  put  in  prison,  may- 
be  " 

"When  did  you  tell  her  that?"  quickly  broke  in 
the  millionaire. 

The  old  woman  looked  somewhat  nonplussed  for 
an  instant,  but  then  appeared  suddenly  to  recollect. 
"Oh,  it  must  have  been  before  she  went  off  in  the 
faint.  You  see,  I  was  helpin'  her  early  in  the  evenin'. 
And  then,  anyhow,  the  young  lady  seemed  all  right 
and  as  sensible  as  could  be.  I  was  goin*  out  of  the 
room  with  her,  but  she  wouldn't  have  it.  She  was 
quite  strong  enough  to  go  alone,  she  says,  and  I'd 
better  stop  where  I  was,  and  pick  up  the  nice  new 


THE  GREAT  SCENE  — AND  AFTER     133 

costume  which  I'd  pitched  on  the  floor  piece  by  piece 
as  I  dragged  it  off  of  her.  So  thinkin'  no  harm,  and 
havin'  had  no  instructions  what  to  do  after  I'd  got 
the  lady  ready,  I  let  her  go.  I  thinks  no  more  about 
it,  till  a  minute  or  two  later  along  comes  Mr.  Jeffrey 
again,  askin'  'Where's  Miss  Gray?" 

"You  haven't:  told  me  yet  why  you  are  all  so  sure 
she's  in  the  theater,"  said  Macaire. 

Mrs.  Purdy  pointed  to  the  walls  of  the  dressing- 
room.  "There  hangs  her  clothes,  sir,"  she  announced. 
"There  was  some  talk  of  takin'  'em  away,  when  she 
was  so  obstinate,  but  that  was  before  she  fainted. 
There  they  hangs.  And  as  these  are  modern  times,  and 
Miss  Gray  ain't  the  Lady  Godiva  the  poetry's  about, 
it  stands  to  reason  she  can't  have  got  far." 

"I've  sent  for  the  door-keeper,  who  swears  that  he 
hasn't  left  his  post  to-night,  and  that  Miss  Gray 
didn't  go  by,"  added  Jeffrey.  "Yet  the  theater's 
been  searched  from  below  the  stage  up  to  the  flies. 
The  girl's  nowhere.  She's  vanished  into  air." 


THE   MASKED    MINSTRELS 

WINIFRED  GRAY  had  disappeared  as  mysteriously 
as  the  bride  in  the  ballad  of  "The  Mistletoe  Bough." 
No  trace  of  her  could  be  found  at  the  theater  or  else- 
where, either  on  the  night  when  mystery  had  swal- 
lowed her  up  or  during  the  days  to  come. 

Macaire  had  neither  expected  nor  greatly  desired 
the  play  produced  with  his  money  to  be  a  success; 
but  strangely  enough,  the  very  event  which  caused 
his  keen  discomfiture  created  an  artificial  vogue  for 
the  revival  of  Mazeppa. 

The  scenery  was  magnificent  if  the  company  (save 
for  the  vanished  star)  was  poor.  Most  of  the  best 
people  had  been  engaged  when  Mr.  Wantage  had 
first  begun  his  quest  for  actors,  and  he  had  been  given 
to  understand  that  if  Miss  Gray  were  secured  the 
rest  of  the  cast  mattered  little  to  the  backer;  there- 
fore he  had  been  easily  suited  for  most  of  the  parts. 
Yet  scenery  alone  and  the  disproportionately  large 
amount  of  pictorial  advertising  which  had  been  done 
could  not  have  saved  Mazeppa  from  failure.  The 
length  of  its  continuance  on  the  boards  would  have 
depended  upon  the  sum  of  money  Mr.  Macaire  was 
willing  to  throw  away.  But  the  sudden  disappearance 
of  the  star  gave  a  fillip  which  perhaps  nothing  else 
could  have  given. 

134 


THE  MASKED  MINSTRELS  135 

A  story  had  been  circulated  that  the  well-known 
millionaire  had  been  induced  to  "back"  the  production 
because  of  his  infatuation  for  the  Miss  Gray  who  had 
lately  been  discharged  from  the  Duke  of  Clarence's 
Theater  for  extraordinary  and  mysterious  reasons. 
People,  even  in  London,  talked  a  good  deal  about  it, 
and  harsh  things  were  said  of  Winifred,  who  was 
represented  as  a  bold  young  woman,  trading  upon  her 
charms  to  handle  Lionel  Macaire's  money,  and  her 
"brazen  front  of  impudence'*  was  proved  without 
shadow  of  doubt  by  the  startling  posters  she  had  allowed 
to  be  exhibited,  representing  herself  as  Mazeppa  bound 
to  the  horse.  She  would  certainly  not  have  undertaken 
to  play  the  part  and  dress  it  as  it  had  once  been  dressed 
by  the  actress  who  had  made  the  play  famous,  it  was 
argued,  had  she  really  been  the  simple,  modest  girl 
she  had  hypocritically  tried  to  appear  during  her  brief 
months  of  popularity  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's. 

Then,  on  the  top  of  this  gossip,  which  associated 
her  name  with  that  of  a  man  notoriously  con- 
nected with  other  scandals,  more  or  less  of  the 
same  sort  (though  he  was  not  too  notorious  to  be  a 
target  for  matchmaking  mothers),  came  the  actress's 
disappearance. 

Among  all  the  things  which  had  been  said  about 
her,  no  one  had  dreamed  of  starting  the  theory  that 
she  had  been  deceived  as  to  the  part  of  Mazeppa  and 
its  requirements.  She  was  an  actress,  and  actresses 
went  through  life  with  their  eyes  open.  And  the 
old  story  of  the  thwarted  elopement  which  had,  in 
some  inexplicable  way,  cost  the  girl  her  position  in 
Mr.  Anderson's  company,  was  revived.  It  had  been 
freely  said  before  that  the  man  in  the  case  had  been 


136  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Lionel  Macaire  himself,  and  though  he  posed  as  a 
bachelor,  there  had  been  many  rumors  that  he  had  a 
wife  from  whom  he  was  separated.  But  now  it  was 
thought  that  the  scandal  had  been  connected  with 
a  married  man  well  known  in  London  society,  and 
that  the  plan  which  had  failed  before  had  been  suc- 
cessfully brought  off  in  Brighton.  Miss  Gray  was 
supposed  to  have  thrown  up  her  engagement  and  left 
her  manager  in  the  lurch,  to  run  away  with  a  man 
differently  identified  by  almost  every  person  who 
helped  to  keep  the  tale  in  circulation.  All  agreed 
in  one  particular  alone.  The  man  had  a  lovely  wife, 
who  was  heartbroken  at  her  husband's  treachery,  and 
by-and-bye,  a  divorce  case  would  come  on  which  would 
make  a  tremendous  sensation  in  the  "highest  circles." 

Brighton  people  flocked  to  the  new  Thespian  Theater, 
where  Miss  Gray's  understudy,  a  pretty  girl  with  a 
good  figure  and  no  absurd  scruples  of  squeamish- 
ness,  made  the  most  of  her  "great  chance."  Others 
even  ran  down  from  town  to  the  seaside,  ostensibly 
because  "Brighton  was  so  jolly  in  November,  you 
know,"  but  really  to  see  for  themselves  the  scene  in 
which  they  might  have  been  shocked  at  Winifred  Gray's 
boldness,  if  she  had  not  run  off,  on  the  first  night  of  the 
piece,  with  Lord  So-and-so. 

As  if  the  fates  were  tireless  in  agitating  the  "boom" 
which  had  saved  Mazeppa  for  the  benefit  of  its  needy 
manager  and  its  company  of  actors,  Brighton  was 
favored  with  another  sensation  on  the  very  morning 
after  the  girl's  disappearance. 

The  startling  posters  which  had  been  put  up  only 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  first  performance  were  all 
either  torn  down  from  their  hoardings  or  destroyed 


THE  MASKED  MINSTRELS  137 

beyond  recognition,  the  name  of  Winifred  Gray 
being  stripped  away  from  underneath  the  picture  in 
every  case. 

Other  posters  of  the  same  design  were  ordered  and 
put  up  to  replace  the  damaged  ones  after  a  day  or 
two's  delay  (for  Lionel  Macaire  still  had  it  in  his 
power  to  take  this  mean  revenge);  but  on  the  follow- 
ing morning  they  were  seen  to  have  gone  the  way  of 
their  predecessors,  even  though  a  reward  had  been 
advertised  for  the  detection  of  the  guilty  person. 

Meanwhile  Lionel  Macaire  remained  in  Brighton, 
having  sent  for  a  detective  from  a  certain  well-known 
private  agency,  not  to  be  on  the  watch,  save  incidentally, 
for  the  destroyer  of  the  posters,  but  to  take  up  the 
scent  from  the  start  and  track  down  Winifred  Gray. 

He  did  not  move  openly  in  the  matter,  Wantage, 
as  business  manager  of  the  company,  acting  for  him. 
But  even  if  the  interest  which  he  took  in  finding  the 
girl  leaked  out,  it  could  not  damage  his  reputation. 
He  it  was  who  had  given  the  first  kick  to  the  football 
of  scandal,  which  at  the  time  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence's 
Theater  incident  had  linked  their  two  names  together. 
Now  he  was  to  be  pitied,  both  as  the  financial  backer 
of  a  company  treacherously  deserted  by  its  principal 
member,  and  as  a  lover  deceived  by  her  upon  whom 
he  had  heaped  benefits. 

The  detective  was  certain  that  by  some  method 
which  it  was  his  duty  to  discover,  the  girl  had  con- 
trived to  get  away  not  only  from  the  theater  but  from 
Brighton.  Everybody  else  believed  this,  of  course; 
but  then  only  two  or  three  persons  knew  the  real 
reason  why  it  would  have  been  especially  difficult 
for  the  actress  to  escape.  Only  Wantage,  Jeffrey, 


138  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Mrs.  Purely,  Lionel  Macaire,  and  now  the  detective, 
were  aware  that  Winifred  had  been  prepared  for  the 
"great  scene"  while  fainting,  and  that,  so  far  as 
could  be  ascertained,  she  had  had  no  possible  oppor- 
tunity or  even  time  for  changing.  In  spite  of  this 
fact,  however,  the  man  from  Sleigh's  agency  persisted 
in  his  theory.  The  girl  must  have  hidden  herself 
somewhere  in  the  theater  for  hours,  and  then  received 
assistance  from  outside.  Once  away,  she  would 
naturally  have  taken  steps  to  leave  Brighton  as  soon 
as  possible.  Her  brother,  who  had  just  returned  to 
London,  was  shadowed,  but  in  vain.  It  was  dis- 
covered that  Mrs.  Gray  was  ill  at  a  nursing  home  in 
Welbeck  Street,  and  that  she  had  within  the  last  few 
days  suffered  a  relapse;  but  nothing  could  be  learned 
there  about  her  daughter. 

Lionel  Macaire,  however,  could  not  be  brought  to 
share  the  detective's  theory.  He  was  utterly  without 
religion,  yet  his  was  a  superstitious  mind.  He  believed 
in  the  warning  power  of  dreams,  or  curious  coin- 
cidences which  had  sometimes  ruled  his  conduct  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  or  in  racing.  He  had  a  conviction 
that  Winifred  Gray  was  not  far  from  him;  and  while 
it  kept  its  grasp  upon  him  he  wished  to  linger  in 
Brighton. 

So  a  week  passed  on,  and  still  Mazeppa  flourished 
at  the  Thespian  Theater;  and  still  the  detective 
had  been  able  to  learn  nothing  of  importance  con- 
cerning Winifred. 

On  the  eighth  day  after  her  disappearance  Lionel 
Macaire  went  out  late  in  the  afternoon  from  the  Hotel 
Metropole,  where  he  was  staying,  and  walked  slowly 
along  the  King's  Road.  He  was  thinking  of  Winifred, 


THE  MASKED  MINSTRELS  139 

as  he  almost  always  was  now,  not  sure  whether  he 
most  loved  or  hated  her;  and  with  thoughts  of  the 
girl  came  up  memories  of  his  strange  past.  Before 
the  eyes  of  his  mind  rose  the  image  of  a  woman  far 
more  beautiful  than  Winifred,  of  whom  the  girl 
reminded  him  in  some  of  her  moods.  If  that  chapter 
of  his  life  could  have  ended  differently,  perhaps  he 
would  have  been  a  different  man.  "  F.  E.  Z."  — 
though  the  woman's  fair  face  was  only  a  memory, 
distant  though  never  dim,  and  her  place  in  what  he 
called  his  heart  had  been  usurped  by  a  girl  thirty 
years  younger  than  she  —  those  initials  had  the  power 
to  call  up  a  thrill  even  now,  half  delicious,  half  painful. 
Oddly  enough,  just  as  he  hated  and  loved  Winifred 
Gray  at  the  same  time,  so  he  had  loved  and  hated  that 
other  woman.  Since  he  could  not  have  her  he  would 
have  killed  her  if  he  could;  if  she  had  had  a  son,  he 
believed  that  it  would  have  given  him  a  subtle  pleasure 
to  be  revenged  for  the  past,  through  him. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  dark  young  man  who 
had  called  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  Theater,  with 
an  introduction  to  George  Anderson  from  "  F.  E.  Z." 

It  had  been  in  Macaire's  thoughts  at  the  time  that 
the  good-looking  young  fellow  in  the  odd  clothes 
might  have  been  more  than  a  mere  friend  to  the  beauti- 
ful woman  whom  so  many  had  adored.  When 
"F.  E.  Z."  had  vanished  from  the  world  where  she 
had  scintillated  as  a  bright,  particular  star  —  vanished 
as  mysteriously  as  Winifred  Gray  —  she  had  been 
several  years  older  than  Winifred;  twenty-three  or 
twenty-four,  perhapj. 

That  was  now  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight  years 
ago.  He  had  been  a  young  man  then,  poor  and 


140  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

obscure,  though  he  had  already  secretly  sown  the 
seeds  of  his  great  future.  Now  he  was  rich  almost 
beyond  his  own  knowledge;  and  he  was  fifty-six 
years,  old,  well  into  middle  age,  though  his  heart  was 
hot  as  it  had  been  in  his  youth. 

The  man  whom  he  had  seen  at  the  theater,  in  the 
very  act  of  doing  personal  injury  to  an  employee  of 
his,  could  not  have  been  more  than  six  or  seven  and 
twenty;  therefore  his  relationship  with  "F.  E.  Z." 
could  hardly  have  been  that  of  a  lover,  unless  she  had 
by  some  magical  power  carried  the  charms  of  her 
youth  through  the  chill  shadows  of  middle  age. 
Macaire's  marred  eyes  had  studied  the  clear-cut  face 
for  traces  of  a  likeness.  He  had  not  seen  what  he 
sought;  still,  the  fancy  had  lurked  in  his  mind  that 
the  man  for  whose  sake  "  F.  E.  Z."  had  spoken  after 
all  these  years,  might  have  been  near  and  dear  to  her 
through  ties  of  blood. 

He  had  not  wished  Anderson  to  do  anything  for  the 
fellow.  There  had  been  a  grim  joy  in  thwarting 
a  request  of  the  woman  he  had  loved  and  lost,  feeling 
that  through  time  and  distance  he  could  stand  in 
the  way  of  her  desire.  But  he  had  not  meant  to  lose 
sight  of  the  young  man,  and  he  had  regarded  it  as 
not  impossible  that  he  might  patronize  him  in  the 
future.  Only,  whatever  was  done  he  intended  should 
be  done  by  himself  and  in  his  own  way. 

Anderson  had  unintentionally  thwarted  his  last 
design  by  forgetting  to  inquire  the  address  of  Hope 
Newcome  (an  assumed  name,  no  doubt),  and  in  the 
quickly  following  events  which  concerned  Winifred 
Gray,  Macaire  had  neglected  to  follow  up  a  clew 
that  might  once  have  been  easily  obtained. 


THE  MASKED  MINSTRELS  141 

Rather  curiously,  he  cherished  no  personal  grudge 
against  Hope  Newcome  for  the  fight  with  the  man 
on  the  box-seat  of  Winifred's  cab  outside  the  stage 
door  on  a  certain  night  full  of  excitement.  If  a  fool 
made  a  mess  of  his  work  he  deserved  to  be  ignored 
by  his  employer  and  punished  by  a  stranger.  Lionel 
Macaire  had  no  use  for  fools,  and  was  merciless  to 
those  who  failed.  But,  maimed  and  physically  handi- 
capped himself  in  almost  every  way,  he  secretly  adored 
and  respected  strength  and  courage  above  all  other 
attributes  of  man. 

He  was  jealous  of  them,  too,  because  of  rather 
than  in  spite  of,  his  admiration,  and  nothing  on  earth 
afforded  him  more  subtle  amusement  than  to  make 
servants  of  strong  men  —  great  giants  who  could  have 
crushed  him  with  a  blow  of  their  fists,  yet  were  forced 
to  become  the  slaves  of  his  money,  and  the  position 
which  that  money  had  won  for  him. 

He  did  not  hate  Hope  Newcome  for  thwarting  him; 
but  if  all  his  soul  had  not  been  absorbed  in  the  pursuit 
of  Winifred  he  would  have  desired  to  have  the  young 
man  as  a  pawn  on  his  chessboard,  to  be  used,  taken 
up,  and  thrown  down  as  whim  or  occasion  suggested. 

Macaire  regretted  to-day,  as  he  thought  of  "F.  E.  Z." 
and  the  man  she  had  sent  to  her  old  friend,  that  he  had 
allowed  the  latter  to  slip  out  of  sight.  Not  that  it 
mattered  much.  Still,  the  feeling  in  his  mind  was  like 
the  annoyance  of  having  carelessly  let  the  reins  drop, 
when  they  should  have  been  firmly  held. 

As  he  walked  on,  noticed  and  recognized  by  many 
of  the  passers-by,  the  sound  of  music  came  to  his  ears. 
A  woman  was  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
banjo,  cleverly  played. 


i42  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Macaire  lifted  his  head  and  saw  a  couple  of  masked 
minstrels;  a  girl  poorly  dressed,  with  long,  curly,  red 
hair  falling  from  under  her  hat  over  her  shoulders,  her 
face  completely  concealed  by  a  mask;  a  tall  man,  with 
his  face  also  hidden,  and  in  his  hands  a  banjo. 

The  couple  played  and  sang  better  than  the  majority 
of  seaside  "buskers,"  and  their  masks  gave  them 
a  certain  piquancy,  yet  Macaire  flung  them  but  one 
glance,  and  pushed  his  way  on  through  the  small 
crowd  which  had  collected  for  the  music.  He  had 
not  gone  far,  however,  when  a  sudden  cry  of  fear  or 
pain  in  a  woman's  voice  caused  him  to  turn  his  head. 

The  group  surrounding  the  masked  minstrels  had 
been  partly  made  up  of  several  swaggering  young 
cockneys  from  the  lower  middle  class,  who  had  prob- 
ably come  to  Brighton  for  a  Saturday  to  Monday 
"lark"  on  their  bicycles.  One  of  their  number,  per- 
haps dared  by  his  fellows,  was  in  the  act  of  attempting 
to  pull  off  the  red-haired  singer's  mask  as  Macaire 
turned;  and  it  was  her  protest  he  had  heard. 

What  he  stopped  to  see  was  the  neat  way  in  which 
her  companion,  despite  the  hampering  banjo,  sent 
the  aggressor  sprawling. 

"Well  done!"  Macaire  said  to  himself,  hoping 
for  more  sport,  as  he  dearly  loved  a  fight,  and  was  an 
enthusiastic  patron  of  the  ring. 

He  was  not  to  be  cheated  of  the  desired  fun,  for 
the  other  members  of  the  fallen  man's  party  rallied 
round  him  thirsting  for  revenge.  Luckily  for  the 
millionaire's  amusement  not  a  policeman  was  in 
sight.  The  various  nursemaids  and  their  little  charges 
who  had  been  listening  to  the  music  scattered  like 
frightened  rabbits,  and  the  town  men  seemed  likely 


THE  MASKED  MINSTRELS  143 

to  have  it  all  their  own  way  for  a  moment  or  two,  with 
the  masked  minstrels. 

Macaire  stood  at  a  distance  faintly  grinning,  a 
twinkle  in  his  pale  eyes.  "That  fellow's  got  his  work 
cut  out  for  him,"  he  thought.  "I  hope  to  goodness 
no  one  will  interfere." 

Some  of  the  man's  intimates,  who  knew  that  he 
had  once  had  a  bear-fight  to  the  death  in  one  of  the 
cellars  under  his  town  house;  that  men  had  pommeled 
each  other's  bodies  and  faces  into  a  blood-stained  jelly 
in  the  same  place  to  win  an  enormous  purse,  and 
afford  secret  midnight  amusement  to  a  few  choice 
spirits  —  these  intimates  of  his  would  have  understood 
the  expression  on  his  face  now  and  the  ugly  glint  in 
his  yellow  eyes. 

He  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  masked  man  say 
to  his  companion,  "Run,  as  fast  as  you  can  go!" 
He  saw  the  girl  turn  and  try  to  obey,  and  he  saw 
the  spring  that  one  of  the  cads  made  to  do  what 
his  prostrate  chum  had  failed  in  doing  —  tear  off 
her  mask. 

Up  went  the  girl's  hands  to  defend  herself;  but  the 
defense  was  not  needed.  A  smashing  blow  with  the 
banjo,  which  brought  the  taut  parchment  down  on  the 
cockney's  head  and  crushed  his  hat  over  a  red, 
astonished  face,  finished  him  as  a  combatant.  He 
retired  with  a  bleeding  nose  to  assist  his  fallen  com- 
rade, while  the  three  others  still  in  fighting  trim 
attacked  the  minstrel,  who  now  stood  in  front  of  the 
red-haired  girl. 

Two  of  the  men  seemed  to  have  some  technical 
knowledge  of  boxing,  as  Macaire's  trained  eye  was 
quick  to  note,  and  the  third,  while  his  friends  used 


i44  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

their  fists,  raised  a  stick  over  the  tall  minstrel's  head 
to  avenge  the  late  attack  with  the  banjo. 

But  the  masked  man  was  not  to  be  taken  unawares. 
Keeping  off  the  two  boxers,  who  were  sparring  up 
to  him,  he  sprang  suddenly  to  one  side,  caught  the 
thick  stick  which  threatened  him,  broke  it  in  two 
pieces  as  if  it  had  been  a  reed,  threw  it  in  the  owner's 
face,  and  turned  his  attention  again  to  the  principal 
attack,  all  without  allowing  the  boxing  contingent  a 
chance  worth  having. 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  fellow !"  thought  Macaire.  "  Won- 
der what  he  plays  the  banjo  for  when  he  might  be 
coining  money  with  his  fists  ?  I  wonder  how  he'd 
do  against  Joey  the  Kid." 

At  this  instant  a  big  policeman,  informed  of  what 
was  going  on  by  one  of  the  fleeing  nursemaids,  appeared 
upon  the  scene. 

The  man  who  had  gone  down  first  was  up  now, 
and,  seeing  the  policeman,  gave  the  alarm  to  his 
companions. 

Before  the  policeman  could  get  near  them  they  had 
turned  tail  and  darted  away  round  the  first  corner 
and  out  of  sight,  the  masked  minstrel  not  deigning  to 
follow.  He  stood  his  ground,  merely  stooping  to 
pick  up  the  broken  banjo,  which  he  had  flung  aside 
for  the  fight,  after  smashing  the  frame  too  severely 
for  the  instrument  to  be  practicable  as  a  weapon. 

If  Macaire  had  had  eyes  for  anyone  so  insignificant 
he  might  have  seen  that  in  the  melee  somehow  the 
little  masked,  red-haired  girl  had  contrived  to  slip 
away.  But  he  was  watching  the  man,  and  approach- 
ing slowly  that  he  might,  if  necessary,  win  the  young 
athlete's  gratitude  by  bearing  witness  in  his  defense. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  DISCOVERY;  AND  A  PROPOSITION 

MACAIRE  was  just  in  time,  as  it  happened,  to  be 
of  yeoman  service,  for  the  policeman,  irritated  that 
the  other  offenders  had  escaped,  and  not  too  kindly 
disposed  toward  a  "  busking"  vagabond  with  a  mask, 
had  opened  the  vials  of  his  wrath  when  the  millionaire 
sauntered  up. 

"Look  here,  bobby,"  said  he  in  the  harsh  voice 
which,  for  some  curious  occult  reason,  seemed  to  have 
great  power  over  the  lower  classes,  "  my  name  is  Lionel 
Macaire.  Perhaps  you  know  it,  and  I  give  you  my 
word  that  this  young  man  is  in  no  way  to  blame  for 
what  has  happened.  I  saw  the  affair  from  the  begin- 
ning, though  unfortunately  I  was  unable  to  interfere. 
One  of  those  ruffians  insulted  a  girl  who  was  with  him, 
singing,  and  this  man  defended  her.  Then  all  the 
others  set  upon  him  —  five  to  one.  He  is  a  brave 
fellow,  and  ought  to  be  praised  instead  of  reprimanded." 

The  policeman  was  a  reader  of  newspapers,  and 
had  known  for  years  that  the  name  of  Lionel  Macaire 
was  financially  one  to  conjure  with,  The  millionaire 
had  been  pointed  out  to  him  also,  since  the  sensa- 
tional affair  at  the  Thespian  Theater,  and  once  having 
seen  that  frightful  face  it  would  be  impossible  to 
mistake  it  for  another's. 

Why  a  millionaire's  word  should  be  accepted  more 


146  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

readily  than  a  pauper's  ought  to  be  hard  to  explain; 
but  such  is  human  nature  —  even  among  policemen. 

"All  right,  sir;  if  you  say  it's  all  right,  I  suppose 
it  is,"  this  member  of  the  force  responded  promptly. 
"I  must  do  my  duty,  sir,  that's  all." 

"Well,  you  have  done  it,  and  now  it's  over,"  said 
Macaire.  At  the  same  time  he  produced  from  his 
sovereign  pocket  two  gold  pieces;  and  though  the 
man  in  blue  honestly  scorns  bribes  —  in  silver  —  this 
one  was  not  able  to  resist  an  offer  of  more  than  a 
week's  salary,  "all  in  one  go,"  merely  for  taking  a 
gentleman's  word. 

"Here  is  a  little  token  that  I  appreciate  your  com- 
mon sense  and  moderation,"  went  on  the  millionaire; 
and  then  the  two  sovereigns  changed  hands.  The 
policeman,  at  that  instant  opportunely  spying  a  motor- 
car which  he  thought  might  be  going  too  fast,  had 
the  best  of  excuses  for  bestowing  his  presence  where  it 
was  most  needed;  and  with  warning  shouts  of  "  Hi-hi!" 
to  the  oblivious  motorist,  he  went  off  at  a  run. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  masked  minstrel  heartily 
to  Macaire.  "You  have  saved  me  from  a  lot  of  bother, 
I'm  sure."  He  spoke  like  a  gentleman,  but  if  he 
were  English  his  accent  suggested  that  he  had  lived 
for  years  out  of  his  native  country. 

"On  the  contrary,"  returned  the  other  in  his  most 
ingratiating  manner,  "it  is  for  me  to  thank  you  for 
as  pretty  an  exhibition  of  dash  and  skill  as  I've  seen 
for  some  time.  You  can  imagine  that  I  don't  refer 
entirely  to  your  musical  feats,  though  they  were  excel- 
lent, no  doubt.  But  I'm  no  judge  of  music.  I  am, 
I  flatter  myself,  a  judge  of  most  things  in  the  athletic 
line,  and  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  so,  I  wonder  that 


A  DISCOVERY  AND  A  PROPOSITION     147 

you  care  to  earn  your  living  by  your  fingers  when  you 
might  do  it  so  much  more  effectually  with  your  biceps 
and  your  fists." 

The  young  man  in  the  mask  laughed  frankly,  and 
glanced  down  at  his  ruined  banjo.  "I  did  better 
work  with  this  to-day  than  usual,  perhaps,"  he  said. 
"  But  it  looks  as  if  it  has  played  its  last  tune.  As  for 
the  talents  you're  good  enough  to  think  I  possess, 
I've  tried  to  make  use  of  them  since  I  came  to  England, 
but  the  market  for  muscles  is  apparently  overstocked. 
Indeed,  I  tried  several  things  before  I  began  making 
a  professional  use  of  my  banjo;  but  I  can't  afford  to 
despise  it,  as  it's  been  the  best  friend  in  the  money- 
making  line  I've  found  in  this  country." 

"All  the  worse  for  the  country,  then,"  responded 
the  millionaire.  "I  hope,  though,  you're  not  so  dis- 
couraged as  to  want  to  leave  it,  and  go  back  to  your 
own  —  wherever  that  may  be." 

"  I  shan't  leave  it  till  I've  done  what  I  came  to  do," 
the  young  man  answered,  with  a  nonchalance  which 
perhaps  cloaked  a  deeper  feeling.  "Not  if  it  takes 
me  ten  years." 

"Oh,  so  you  came  to  England  with  an  object,  eh  ?" 
inquired  Macaire,  in  the  good-natured  way  he  could 
affect  when  he  had  a  motive.  His  motive  now  was 
to  get  this  young  athlete  under  his  patronage,  and 
perhaps  match  him  against  a  certain  champion  who 
had  gone  about  in  swaggering  defiance  of  rivals  long 
enough.  It  was  something  to  have  his  thoughts 
taken  off  his  galling  failure  with  Winifred  Gray,  and 
he  was  pleased  to  find  himself  feeling  so  keen  an  interest 
in  an  alien  subject. 

"Don't  most  men  travel  with  an  object?"  retorted 


148  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  man  with  the  mask.  "There'd  be  no  incentive  to 
a  lazy  fellow,  else.  And  for  fear  I  go  back  to  a  con- 
dition of  laziness  I  must  be  off  —  thanking  you  again 
for  what  you  did  for  me." 

"Stop  a  bit,"  ejaculated  Macaire.  "I've  some- 
thing to  suggest  to  you.  As  you  say,  few  men  —  that 
is,  few  men  of  brains  like  yours  and  mine  —  do  things 
without  an  object.  Now,  I  had  an  object  in  interfer- 
ing in  your  interest  with  our  friend  in  blue.  It  wasn't 
an  entirely  selfish  one,  perhaps,  though  partially  so, 
I  admit,  and  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about 
it,  if  you're  so  inclined.  It  might  turn  out  to  be  for 
our  mutual  advantage." 

Again  the  young  man  laughed.  "You  can  guess 
that  I'm  open  to  offers,  if  it's  anything  of  that  sort 
you  mean." 

"That's  precisely  what  I  do  mean,"  announced  the 
millionaire.  "Look  here,  it's  getting  on  toward  one's 
dinner-hour.  Come  to  Mutton's  with  me.  I'll  get 
a  private  room,  and  we'll  have  a  chop  and  a  bottle 
of  Burgundy  together,  if  you  can  spare  the  time." 

"I've  got  more  time  than  anything  else  just  now," 
responded  the  masked  minstrel,  lightly.  "And  I'm 
very  much  at  your  service." 

They  walked  together  to  Mutton's  (a  place  chosen 
by  Macaire  because  he  did  not  wish  to  meet  acquaint- 
ances), forming  a  strange  contrast;  the  tall  young 
man  with  the  black  mask  covering  his  face,  the  broken 
banjo  in  his  hand;  the  stooped  figure  of  the  millionaire 
with  his  hobbling  limp  and  his  scarred  features.  There 
could  hardly  have  been  a  more  incongruous  pair,  and 
people  they  met  turned  to  look  after  them.  But 
Macaire  either  did  not  notice  the  attention  he  and  his 


A  DISCOVERY  AND  A  PROPOSITION     149 

companion  aroused,  or  was  too  independent  of  public 
opinion  to  care  for  it. 

He  was  wondering  whether  the  masked  minstrel 
knew  anything  of  him  besides  the  name  which  he 
must  have  heard  spoken  when  he  had  mentioned  it  to 
the  policeman  a  few  moments  ago.  He  wondered 
whether  the  fellow  was  aware  that  he  was  walking 
beside  one  of  the  richest  men  in  England  —  a  man  so 
rich  that  he  could  afford  to  do,  say,  look,  and  wear 
exactly  what  he  pleased. 

Macaire  hoped  that  the  other  did  know  all  this, 
although,  as  he  had  apparently  not  long  ago  come  to 
England,  he  might  be  in  ignorance  of  his  companion's 
importance.  It  would  be  awkward  to  call  direct 
attention  to  it,  especially  as  the  millionaire  was  on  his 
best  behavior,  endeavoring  to  appear  a  jolly,  modest 
fellow,  not  too  proud,  despite  his  wealth  and  position, 
to  hob-nob  with  a  nobody  to  whom  he  had  happened 
to  take  a  fancy. 

Wishing  to  impress  the  minstrel  in  some  quiet  and 
unobtrusive  way,  he  took  the  best  private  room  that 
Mutton's  could  give,  and,  though  it  was  too  early  in 
the  day  for  him  to  work  up  an  appetite  for  dinner, 
instead  of  the  chop  and  bottle  of  Burgundy  he  had 
suggested,  he  ordered  an  elaborate  feast,  with  plenty 
of  champagne  of  his  own  favorite  brand. 

"Now,"    he    remarked,    when    the    hors-d'oeuvres 

appeared,  "now  is  the  time  when  you  must  cease  to 

hide  your  light  under  a  bushel,  and  throw  off  the  mask 

-that  is,  unless  you  merely  intend  to  look  on  while 

I  eat  my  dinner." 

"To  a  man  who  hasn't  dined,  but  only  eaten  food, 
for  some  time,  that  would  be  too  cruel  an  aggravation," 


150  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

returned  the  minstrel.  "It  is  nothing  more  or  less 
than  morbid  self-consciousness  —  vanity,  if  you  will 
—  that  tempted  me  to  pick  my  banjo  from  behind  a 
screen.  I  don't  intend  to  trouble  you  with  my  ante- 
cedents, but  —  people  who  were  once  dear  to  me 
would  have  been  made  unhappy  if  they  could  have 
known  I  was  destined  to  get  my  living  by  'busking* 
at  the  seaside;  and  I  suppose  I'm  idiot  enough  to  be 
ashamed,  in  a  way,  of  what  I've  been  doing  —  though 
I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  too,  for  being  ashamed.  But, 
anyhow,  here  goes  the  mask." 

It  had  been  tied  behind  his  head,  and  as  he  talked 
he  had  been  fumbling  awkwardly  —  as  men's  unaccus- 
tomed fingers  do  fumble  —  with  the  knot.  But  the 
strings  yielded  at  last  and  the  mask  suddenly  fell,  to 
show  a  dark,  handsome,  clear-cut  face,  with  lips  parted 
in  a  rather  shy,  boyish  smile  over  a  row  of  strong, 
perfect  white  teeth. 

The  minstrel's  laughing  brown  eyes  met  those  of 
the  millionaire;  and  Lionel  Macaire's  boasted  self- 
control  came  into  play  as  he  restrained  a  start  of 
surprise. 

"  Haven't  I  seen  you  somewhere  before  ? "  he  asked, 
hiding  all  emotion.  As  well  as  he  knew  his  own 
strange  antecedents  did  he  know  when  and  where  he 
had  seen  that  dark  face  before;  but  he  did  not  wish 
the  other  to  guess  himself  of  enough  importance  to 
have  been  definitely  remembered. 

"Yes,"  the  young  man  answered  without  an  instant's 
hesitation,  "at  least,  I  have  seen  you,  sir,  and  I  recol- 
lected it  the  moment  you  came  up  to  me  this  afternoon, 
though  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  noticed  me  particularly 
that  other  time." 


A  DISCOVERY  AND  A  PROPOSITION     151 

"Where  was  it?"  asked  Macaire,  "and  when,  if 
you  can  recall  that?" 

"I  have  some  reason  for  recalling  it,"  replied  Hope 
Newcome.  "I  had  a  big  disappointment  that  night. 
I  had  been  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  Theater,  with 
an  introduction  from  —  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Ander- 
son's, to  him.  I  wanted  a  short  engagement  till  I 
could  get  something  else  to  do  —  merely  as  Charles 
the  Wrestler,  in  the  production  of  As  You  Like  It, 
which  was  coming  on.  But,  though  I'm  nearly  six 
feet,  Mr.  Anderson  has  an  inch  or  two  the  advantage 
of  me,  and  thought  it  wouldn't  do.  I  saw  you  coming 
out  of  the  theater  with  him  afterward." 

"Oh,  yes!"  exclaimed  Macaire,  as  though  suddenly 
enlightened.  "Of  course.  How  stupid  of  me.  You 
were  engaged  —  ha,  ha!  —  in  much  the  same  occupa- 
tion as  I  found  you  at  to-day.  A  queer  coincidence." 

"You'll  think  me  a  very  pugnacious  person,  sir," 
Hope  Newcome  said,  flushing  slightly  under  the  clear, 
sunburnt  olive  of  his  skin  —  that  kind  of  sunburn 
which  does  not  wear  away  with  years,  unless  in  mortal 
illness.  He  did  not  use  the  word  "sir"  in  addressing 
the  millionaire  as  if  he  were  kow-towing  to  a  superior, 
but  as  though  he,  a  young  man,  adopted  it  out  of 
respect  to  one  many  years  his  senior.  Though  he 
had  been  seen  fighting  at  stage  doors,  and  playing  the 
banjo  on  Brighton  beach,  he  had  the  air  of  simply 
-  unconsciously  almost  —  taking  it  for  granted  that 
he  was  Macaire's  equal.  And  Macaire  saw  this,  and 
was  grimly  amused  by  it,  considering  certain  differences 
between  them. 

'The  shortest  road  to  my  regard,  as  far  as  that's 
concerned,"  responded  Macaire,  "is  by  being  a  'pug- 


152  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

nacious  person/  as  you  call  it.  If  I  hadn't  thought 
you  one  through  our  acquaintance  to-day  we  shouldn't 
be  dining  together  now.  And  what  I've  just  learned 
only  raises  you  in  my  estimation.  I  believe  now  that 
I  even  heard  you  speak  to  my  friend  Anderson  that 
night,  and  I  am  usually  rather  quick  to  recognize 
voices.  But  yours  sounded  differently  when  you 
spoke  under  your  mask.  By  the  way,  as  it  happens, 
that  was  rather  an  eventful  night  for  me,  too." 

He  could  not  have  told  why  he  should  volunteer 
the  admission;  but  he  let  it  come  because  he  did  not 
see  that  acting  upon  impulse  could  in  this  instance  do 
any  harm.  And  somehow  he  found  himself  oddly 
drawn  toward  the  young  fellow.  There  was  a  certain 
fascination  about  his  strong,  virile  personality,  which 
was  augmented  by  the  knowledge  that  this  was  he  whom 
"F.  E.  Z."  had  known,  perhaps  loved.  Yet  Macaire 
was  far  from  sure  whether  the  magnetic  attraction  he 
experienced  was  nearer  to  hate  or  affection.  He  only 
knew  that  he  felt  it,  and  desired  to  have  a  master  hand 
over  this  young  man's  fate. 

"I  didn't  know  who  you  were  that  night,  sir," 
Hope  Newcome  said.  "  But  I  remembered  your  face." 

The  corners  of  Macaire's  mouth  went  down  in  a 
bitter  sneer. 

"That's  because  of  my  fatal  beauty,"  he  retorted 
harshly.  "  I  seldom  find  myself  forgotten  —  even 
by  a  pretty  woman.  But  I  have  more  important  things 
to  talk  of  than  personalities,  and  my  ideas  concerning 
you  are  in  no  way  changed  by  the  fact  that  we  have 
met  before.  You  tell  me  you  wanted  to  play  the 
wrestler  on  the  stage.  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  you 
might  like  to  do  so  in  good  earnest,  since  that  is  your 


A  DISCOVERY  AND  A  PROPOSITION    153 

forte.  Surely  you  haven't  wasted  those  muscles  of  yours 
all  your  life  ?  And  as  surely  you've  had  training  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  trained  both  as  a  wrestler  and  boxer," 
Newcome  answered;  "but  I  never  intended  to  use 
the  arts  professionally.  It  was  at  a  Western  university 
in  America  where  I  first  began  to  take  a  great  interest 
in  sport.  I  was  m  rather  a  sporting  set,  and  I  took 
the  fancy  of  an  old  prize-fighter  resting  on  his  laurels, 
who  lived  in  the  town.  He  and  a  pal  of  his  taught 
me  everything  I  know,  and  they  seemed  to  think  me  a 
decent  sort  of  pupil. 

'Then,  a  year  before  I  finished  my  college  course, 
family  affairs  took  me  away  home.  I  lived  a  very 
different  sort  of  life  after  that,  but  I  didn't  forget  what 
I'd  learned  from  Foxy  O'Sullivan  and  his  mate.  I 
had  a  chance  at  a  wrestling  match  with  a  big  man 
among  the  amateurs  —  champion  he  was  then,  and  I 
got  the  belt  from  him.  Two  or  three  matches  I  had 
afterward,  but  I  kept  the  belt." 

"Are  you  any  good  with  the  gloves,  or  don't  you 
go  in  for  anything  but  wrestling  ? "  asked  Macaire, 
his  eyes  dwelling  with  a  queer,  jealous,  grudging 
admiration  on  the  other's  splendid  shoulders,  his  arms, 
his  wrists  —  visible  under  shabby  sleeves  too  short  for 
him  —  his  strong,  brown  hands  that  had  done  damage 
to-day. 

"Oh,  wrestling's  been  my  specialty,  but  I  believe 
I'm  not  a  bad  boxer,"  Newcome  answered  with  mod- 
est confidence  in  his  own  powers.  "I  think  I  could 
hold  my  own  with  most  amateurs,  though  I'm  a  bit 
out  of  training." 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  into  training  again,  if 
you  stood  to  make  your  fortune,  eh?" 


154  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Newcome's  dark  eyes  flashed.  "I'd  do  anything 
that  would  keep  me  in  England,  and  among  the  sort 
of  men  I  must  be  among,  if  I'm  to  do  what  I  came  a 
good  many  thousand  miles  to  do.  And  as  for  a 
fortune  —  well,  I've  got  more  than  one  use  for  money 
just  now." 

As  he  finished  his  face  changed.  No  longer  open, 
it  became  reserved.  Though  at  first  sight  he  seemed 
to  have  been  exceedingly  outspoken,  even  confidential, 
about  his  past  and  his  present  circumstances,  after 
all  he  had  told  practically  nothing;  and  despite  his 
boyish  frankness  at  times  he  looked  like  a  man  who 
could  keep  his  own  counsel,  a  man  who  would  be 
strong  enough,  dogged  enough  to  die  for  the  keeping 
of  a  secret  if  need  arose. 

Macaire,  however,  did  not  now  make  these  reflections 
regarding  his  companion's  character.  He  thought 
of  him  as  a  connecting  link  with  the  past,  through 
"F.  E.  Z."  (concerning  whom  he  meant  cautiously 
to  put  questions  in  time  to  come),  and  as  of  a  mag- 
nificent young  animal  to  be  trained  for  his  uses,  rather 
than  as  a  thinking,  feeling  man  with  ambitions  and  hopes 
of  his  own.  The  millionaire  was  accustomed  to  make 
puppets  of  others  who  were  handicapped  in  life's 
race  by  the  lack  of  what  he  possessed  in  abundance; 
and  one  of  his  most  extravagantly  eccentric  ideas  was 
taking  form  in  his  brain,  for  the  future  of  his  present 
companion. 

By  this  time  dinner  was  well  under  way.  Here 
and  there  they  had  paused  in  their  conversation  for 
one  course  to  go  and  another  to  come,  lest  the  subject 
should  prove  too  interesting  for  a  waiter's  ears;  and 
they  had  now  passed  oysters,  soup,  and  filleted  sole. 


A  DISCOVERY  AND  A  PROPOSITION    155 

"Very  well,"  Macaire  commented  on  the  other's 
answer.  "Then  you're  the  man  for  me.  And  I 
rather  think  I'm  the  man  for  you,  too.  I'm  rich  —  I 
suppose  you've  heard  that  of  me,  haven't  you  ?" 

"I've  heard  that  there's  a  Mr.  Lionel  Macaire 
who's  got  millions.  Are  you  that  Macaire,  sir  ?" 

"I'm  that  Macaire.  I  like  to  amuse  myself,  and  I 
can  afford  to  pay  for  it;  I  do  pay  for  it.  I  invite  you 
to  cater  for  my  amusement,  and  I'm  willing  to  pay  a 
big  price.  If  you  consent,  after  I've  explained,  I 
don't  mind  giving  you  a  sum  down  if  you're  so  situated 
that  money  in  hand  would  be  a  convenience  —  a  sort 
of  retaining  fee,  don't  you  know  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Newcome.  "If  I  saw  that  I 
could  earn  the  money,  I  don't  deny  that  it  would  be  a 
convenience." 

"Good.  There's  just  one  thing,  then,  before  I 
put  my  proposition  and  try  to  see  if  you  and  I  can 
come  to  terms.  Will  you  give  me  your  word,  if  you 
accept,  that  the  arrangement  between  us  shall  be 
entirely  confidential  —  entirely,  mind  you  ?  I  haven't 
asked  you  to  confide  in  me,  and  I  don't  know  whether 
you're  alone  in  England  or  whether  you're  with  friends 
or  relatives,  male  or  female.  But  when  I  say  that  I 
want  our  transactions  to  be  private  between  ourselves, 
I  don't  except  such  relatives  or  friends." 

"I  understand  you,  sir.  And  if  I  accept  it  shall 
be  as  you  say.  I  give  you  my  word." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    REST   OF   THE    BARGAIN 

"How  soon  could  you  get  into  training  for  the 
biggest  fight  you  ever  had?"  asked  Macaire.  "That 
is,  everything  being  favorable." 

"I  could  be  ready  in  a  fortnight,  I'm  sure,"  New- 
come  answered,  after  an  instant's  thought.  "I  haven't 
much  superfluous  flesh  to  work  off,  and  I  always  go 
in  for  a  certain  amount  of  exercising  every  day,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  when  I  slept  on  a  seat  on  the 
Victoria  Embankment.  Without  exercising  each  morn- 
ing I  feel  as  lost,  somehow,  as  I  do  without  my  cold 
plunge.  But  as  for  a  fight  - 

"No  'buts'  until  you've  heard  me  out!"  Macaire 
broke  in.  "My  friends  all  know  me  for  a  sportsman, 
and  I  have  few  friends  who  are  not  sporting  men. 
Sometimes,  to  amuse  them,  I  give  a  show  in  a  big 
vault  of  a  room  under  my  house,  and  nobody  outside 
is  the  wiser.  Last  spring  I  managed  a  pretty  good 
glove  fight-- Joe  Nash,  known  as  Joey  the  Kid,  and 
a  mulatto,  Bill  Clay.  They  were  both  first-rate  men. 
The  Kid  is  the  champion  of  his  county,  and  since  he 
downed  Clay,  who  had  a  splendid  record  in  the  prize- 
ring  in  the  States  - 

"  I've  heard  of  him,"  said  Newcome. 

"I  thought  you  must  have.  Well,  the  Kid  has 
gone  swaggering  about  swearing  there's  no  one  who 

156 


THE  REST  OF  THE  BARGAIN         157 

can  touch  him.  He's  getting  tiresome,  and  I  should 
like  nothing  better  than  to  see  you  knock  him  out  — 
at  my  place,  with  my  friends  and  me  looking  on  —  for 
a  purse  of,  say,  two  thousand  pounds.  It  would  be  a 
very  sporting  thing  for  you  to  accept." 

Hope  Newcome  flushed  a  little,  and  did  not  hurry 
in  answering.  He  saw  that  the  millionaire  looked 
upon  him  as  an  animal,  and  valued  him  as  a  man 
may  value  a  new  hunter  which  he  thinks  of  securing. 
Newcome  felt  that  there  were  things  in  him  of  more 
worth  than  his  muscles,  and  the  proposal  made  by 
the  millionaire  liked  him  not.  But  only  this  morning 
he  had  told  himself  that  he  would  do  anything  for  a 
hundred  pounds,  even  to  committing  a  crime.  Not 
for  his  own  necessities,  though  he  wanted  money 
badly  enough,  but  for  another  use  upon  which  he  had 
set  his  heart  and  soul.  Now,  here  was  the  chance  of 
earning  much  more  than  the  sum  he  had  thought  of 
-  a  chance  which  a  few  hours  ago  had  seemed  as 
far  away  from  him  as  the  stars  in  heaven.  It  would 
be  madness  to  think  of  letting  it  slip. 

But  Macaire  believed  that  he  was  hesitating  in  the 
hope  of  a  larger  bribe.  That  bribe  he  had  meant 
to  offer  by  and  by;  now,  however,  he  proceeded  to 
"spring"  it  at  once. 

'Two  thousand  pounds  is  the  purse  for  which  you 
would  put  on  the  gloves,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  rather 
a  whimsical  fellow;  I  like  my  jest  with  the  world 
which  has  played  some  hard  tricks  on  me;  and  in 
this  hour  that  you  and  I  have  had  together  an  idea 
has  come  into  my  head  concerning  you.  Two  thou- 
sand pounds  is  a  good  enough  purse,  maybe,  but  it's 
not  a  fortune;  and  I  hinted  to  you  that  you  might 


158  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

make  your  fortune.  If  you  knock  the  Kid  out  you 
get  the  purse;  but  how  would  you  like  at  the  same 
time  to  blossom  out  as  a  rich  young  man  about  town, 
with  a  name  and  enough  money  to  buy  you  a  place  in 
society  ?  A  place  as  good  as  mine,  for  instance  ? " 

Macaire  watched  the  dark  face,  but  it  changed 
very  little.  There  was  only  a  slight  quivering  of  the 
lips  for  a  second,  which  ended  in  a  smile  —  not  exactly 
the  sort  of  emotion  that  the  millionaire  had  expected 
to  call  up.  He  had  looked  for  astonishment. 

"The  higher  the  place,  the  better  I  should  like  it," 
said  Newcome,  laughing.  "But  I  don't  see  any 
ladder  to  begin  the  climb  on,  at  present." 

"If  you  fight  Joey  the  Kid  and  lick  him,"  returned 
Macaire,  in  the  vernacular  of  his  kind,  "I'll  provide 
the  ladder.  After  the  fight's  over  I  shall  introduce 
you  to  my  friends  as  a  sporting  young  pal  of  mine 
who  did  the  thing  for  a  lark.  I  shall  give  them  the 
tip  that  you  have  come  into  a  pile  of  money,  and  that 
you  want  to  see  something  of  London  life.  I've  done 
pretty  well  for  myself,  and  I'm  in  just  the  sort  of  set 
that  I  like;  but  there  are  people  in  English  society 
who  think  themselves  too  good  for  me,  in  spite  of  my 
money.  There  are  others  who'll  say  black's  white 
if  I  ask  them  to,  because  I've  got  what  they  want. 
You  shall  know  both  kinds.  You  must  have  a  good 
name,  of  course  —  a  title  would  be  the  best  thing.  But 
an  English  one  couldn't  be  managed,  I'm  afraid. 
You'd  have  to  put  up  with  a  foreign  makeshift.  What 
would  you  think  of — er  —  let  me  see,  Baron  von 
Zellheim?" 

Now,  at  least,  Macaire  had  no  need  for  disap- 
pointment, for  the  young  man's  face  was  red  from 


THE  REST  OF  THE  BARGAIN         159 

chin  to  forehead.  "How  did  you  happen  to  think  of 
that  for  a  name  ?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"  It  came  into  my  head,"  answered  Macaire,  "  partly 
because  there  really  is  such  a  title,  which  has  lapsed, 
I  believe,  for  lack  of  a  man  with  the  right  to  bear  it; 
partly  because  it's  not  important  enough  to  be  doubted 
and  disputed;  and  partly  because  of  an  association 
in  my  mind." 

"Would  you  object  to  telling  me  what  that  asso- 
ciation is  ? " 

"Not  at  all.  When  you  recalled  to  me  the  fact 
that  I  had  seen  you  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  Theater 
one  night  some  weeks  ago,  I  remembered  that  I  then 
asked  my  friend  Anderson  who  you  were.  Said  he: 
'That  young  man  was  sent  to  me  with  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  the  once  famous  "F.  E.  Z."  Well, 
I  knew  'F.  E.  Z.'  slightly  —  a  long  time  ago,  when 
she  was  very  young,  and  I  not  so  much  older.  If  she 
had  been  a  man  she  would  have  been  Baron  von 
Zellheim.  You  knew  her  personally,  I  suppose  ?  Did 
she  ever  mention  that  to  you  ?" 

"Yes.     She  spoke  of  her  antecedents." 

"If  she  had  married  and  had  a  son  he  would  have 
been  the  Baron  von  Zellheim.  But,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  believe  she  never  did  marry.  However,  you 
may  know  better  than  I  about  that." 

"No,"  remarked  Newcome,  coolly.  "About  her 
private  life,  until  I  had  the  privilege  of  meeting  her, 
I  knew  very  little."  This  time  his  expression  told  no 
more  than  his  words. 

"Well,  you  understand  what  I  meant  by  the  'asso- 
ciation/ "  quietly  explained  Macaire.  "Seeing  you, 
and  remembering  what  Anderson  said,  brought  up 


160  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  thought  of  the  beautiful  'F.  E.  Z/  So  I  recalled 
the  title  which  is  going  begging  —  a  good  old  German 
name,  and  nobody  to  dispute  it  if  you  choose  to  keep 
your  mouth  shut.  As  the  lady  is  your  friend " 

"She  is  dead/'  cut  in  the  other. 

So  George  Anderson  had  notified  Macaire  after 
receiving  the  information  from  Newcome.  But  the 
millionaire  affected  surprise  and  regret.  He  still 
professed  certainty,  however,  that  she  would  gladly 
have  lent  the  family  title  to  her  young  friend  if  it 
could  serve  him. 

"Why  should  it  serve  me?"  asked  Newcome. 

"It  would  offer  a  foundation  to  begin  upon,  which, 
with  the  money  I  should  put  at  your  service,  would  at 
once  give  you  a  free  pass  into  society  —  real  society, 
I  mean." 

"But  I  don't  understand  yet  why  you  should  put 
money  at  my  service,"  Newcome  answered. 

"To  amuse  myself.  I  should  like  to  play  a  trick 
on  the  society  which  has  only  accepted  me  because  of 
what  I  have.  I  should  enjoy  seeing  you  take  every- 
one by  storm;  seeing  a  man  like  you  flattered,  and 
run  after,  and  made  much  of,  on  my  recommendation. 
I  tell  you,  if  you  fight  the  Kid  for  me  and  come  out 
on  top,  you  shall  have  six  months  of  such  a  life  as 
perhaps  you've  never  dreamed  of." 

The  thought  that  flashed  through  Hope  Newcome's 
head  was:  "Six  months  ought  to  be  enough  for  my 
purpose.  With  such  a  chance  as  this  madman  offers 
me  for  some  queer  reason  of  his  own,  which  he's  hiding 
and  don't  want  me  to  guess  at,  I  could  not  only  give 
the  help  I  would  sell  my  life  to  give,  but  I  should  be 
able  to  learn  how  to  keep  my  oath  as  well." 


THE  REST  OF  THE  BARGAIN         161 

"And  at  the  end  of  the  six  months  ?"  he  said  out  loud. 

'  '  After  me,  the  deluge/  "  smiled  Macaire,  grimly. 
"Why,  at  the  end  of  the  six  months  I  should  come  to 
the  kernel  of  my  joke.  Wouldn't  you  be  willing  to 
help  me  crack  the  shell?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  Perhaps 
you  don't  wish  me  to." 

"  I  confess  I'm  fond  of  a  harmless  mystery,"  answered 
the  man  just  baffled  by  the  mystery  wrapped  round 
the  vanished  figure  of  a  girl.  "If  I  —  merely  to 
amuse  myself  —  not  out  of  any  exaggerated  whim 
to  be  generous  —  offer  you  a  —  er  —  salary,  we'll  call 
it,  of  a  thousand  pounds  a  month  for  six  months,  and 
let  you  do  what  you  like  without  asking  questions, 
wouldn't  you  grant  me  my  mystery  till  the  end  of  that 
phase  of  our  partnership  ?" 

"I've  never  yet  taken  any  money  I  haven't  earned," 
said  Newcome. 

"I  mean  you  shall  earn  this.  At  first,  with  the 
fight  (the  thing's  off  if  the  Kid  knocks  you  out);  after- 
ward, at  the  end  of  the  six  months.  Oh,  you  needn't 
look  so  suspicious,  my  friend.  I  swear  I  would  ask 
nothing  dishonorable.  Will  you  take  my  word  for 
that,  and,  trusting  me  for  the  rest,  give  me  my  way  ?" 

Lionel  Macaire,  with  his  hideous,  scarred  face  and 
pale  eyes,  did  not  look  a  person  to  whom  trust  would 
naturally  flow  out;  but  Hope  Newcome  wanted  money 
and  position  —  position  not  for  what  it  could  give  him 
of  enjoyment,  but  for  the  help  it  would  afford  in  the 
mission  for  which  he  had  lived,  until  the  moment  when 
an  incentive  even  stronger,  came  suddenly  into  his  life. 
Money  he  must  have  for  the  accomplishment  of  both 
objects. 


162  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

It  seemed  to  him,  holding  no  cue  to  the  motif-music 
which  sang  so  strange  a  tune  in  Lionel  Macaire's 
blood,  that  the  eccentric  millionaire  must  be  hovering 
on  the  verge  of  madness  —  a  verge  where  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  draw  a  line  of  definition.  But  there  was  the 
offer,  such  as  it  was,  for  him,  Hope  Newcome,  to  take 
or  leave.  And  after  six  months,  why,  he  believed 
himself  strong  enough  to  face  the  consequences  and 
pay  the  bill,  whatever  it  might  be.  Besides,  he  might 
not  win  in  that  fight,  supposing  he  went  in  for  it.  Yes 
he  would  do  it.  Let  all  depend  upon  that.  It  must 
be  Fate's  decision,  not  his. 

"Well  ?"  inquired  Macaire. 

"How  long  will  you  give  me  to  decide  ?" 

"Five  minutes.  The  fight  to  be  twenty  rounds, 
Queensbury  rules,  two-ounce  gloves,  a  decision  on 
points  if  you  stick  it  out  till  the  finish.  Fifty  pounds 
in  your  hand  before  you  leave  this  room  for  your 
immediate  expenses,  living,  and  training  —  for  you'd 
want  a  sparring  partner  and  a  lot  of  odds  and  ends. 
The  best  thing  for  you  to  do  would  be  to  go  straight 
to  town,  take  up  your  quarters  in  my  house,  and  use 
my  gymnasium.  But  all  these  points  we  can  settle 
if  you  decide  my  way  in  five  minutes." 

Hope  Newcome  had  wanted  as  many  hours,  meaning 
to  walk  by  the  sea  in  the  November  darkness,  making 
up  his  mind.  But  the  offer  of  fifty  pounds  down  and 
a  -chance  to  live  without  spending  too  much  of  it  was, 
in  the  strange  circumstances  known  only  to  himself, 
more  than  he  could  resist. 

"I'll  try  it,"  he  said,  without  waiting  for  even  one 
of  the  five  minutes  to  go  by. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A    BACKWARD    GLANCE 

WHEN  Winifred  Gray  had  cried  out  her  broken 
prayer  for  help  on  the  night  of  her  great  trial  at  the 
theater  Mrs.  Purdy  had  honestly  striven  to  comfort 
the  girl. 

The  old  woman  thought  that  the  young  one  made 
far  too  much  of  the  ordeal  through  which  she  was 
expected  to  pass,  and  bluntly  said  so.  "What's  an 
extra  petticoat  here  or  there?"  she  had  scornfully 
demanded.  "There's  many  a  girl  just  as  good  with- 
out as  with  'em.  My  own  daughter  now,  is  one  of 
the  best,  and  she  plays  the  boy  in  pantomime,  my  dear, 
whenever  she  can  get  the  job,  and  I  wish  she  had  one 
now.  It  didn't  kill  mey  not  it.  Why  should  it  your 
mother?" 

There  was  a  difference,  but  perhaps  too  subtle  for 
Mrs.  Purdy's  comprehension.  Winifred,  quivering 
and  panting  still,  did  not  attempt  to  go  into  it,  but  a 
few  words  which  the  woman  had  spoken  made  her 
turn  wet,  wistful  eyes  up  to  the  common  old  face. 

"You've  a  daughter  of  your  own,"  she  said.  "For 
her  sake,  and  for  my  mother's,  help  me.  It  isn't 
only  this  scene  that  is  so  dreadful.  There  is  far  more 
than  that.  A  man  —  a  very  rich  man  —  has  per- 
secuted and  plotted  against  me.  My  playing  Mazeppa 
and  being  here  at  all  to-night  is  part  of  the  trick.  He 

163 


1 64  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

would  spoil  my  whole  life  if  he  could  —  I  think  he  has 
nearly  spoiled  it  now.  This  is  to  bring  me  into  the 
dust  under  his  feet;  and  he  would  be  glad  if  the  shame 
of  it  killed  my  mother,  who  is  very  ill,  for  then  I  should 
have  no  one  on  earth  to  care  for  or  protect  me.  Think 
how  you  would  feel  if  your  daughter  —  your  good 
daughter  —  were  in  such  trouble  and  danger.  Do 
for  me  what  you  would  have  my  mother  do  for  her  if 
our  places  were  changed.  Help  me  to  get  away  — 
to  hide  myself  from  this  man." 

She  caught  the  woman's  skirt  with  her  hands  when 
Mrs.  Purdy  half  turned  away.  Eyes,  and  shaking 
voice,  and  falling  tears  all  did  their  part  in  pleading. 

"Dea.r  me,  if  you  ain't  suddenly  the  image  of  my 
own  beautiful  lady,  F.  E.  Z.,  the  first  and  dearest  I 
was  ever  dresser  to!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Purdy.  "It's 
your  eyes  —  I  think  —  and  the  look  of  your  face  now. 
I'll  never  forget  till  the  day  I  die,  seeing  her  cryin* 
because  of  a  trouble  a  bit  like  yours.  Why,  if  there 
was  anything  I  could  do  for  you,  miss,  I'd  do  it  and  be 
glad,  for  my  girl's  sake,  and  the  look  on  you  like  my 
lady.  But  what  could  a  body  like  me  do  that  would 
be  any  use  ?  In  fifteen  minutes  you'll  be  on  the  stage 
and " 

"But  there  are  those  fifteen  minutes  first.  Some- 
how, if  you  would,  you  might  smuggle  me  out  of  the 
theater,  and  then,  if  you  could  tell  me  what  to  do  just 
for  to-night " 

"Hist!"  whispered  the  old  dresser,  holding  up  a 
finger  of  warning.  "Someone  is  coming  to  the  door." 

Winifred  was  hushed  into  instant  silence,  her  wet 
eyes  large  and  shining,  her  lips  parted  for  hurried, 
uneven  breaths. 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  165 

Knuckles  rapped  out  a  summons  on  the  door.  It 
was  then  that  the  stage  manager  had  asked  Mrs. 
Purdy  how  she  was  getting  on.  With  a  quick,  mean- 
ing glance  at  Winifred,  her  answer  had  been  that  she 
was  "getting  on  as  well  as  could  be  expected." 

Then  he  had  been  induced  to  go  away,  and  the  par- 
ley had  begun  again  where  it  had  been  so  abruptly 
broken  off. 

"Supposing  I  could  get  you  out  —  I  don't  say  I 
could,  but  supposing — "  the  dresser  went  on,  "you 
couldn't  go  to  your  lodgings,  could  you?  This  rich 
man  you're  talkin'  about,  he's  sure  to  know  where 
you  lodge,  eh  ? " 

"They  have  my  address  here  at  the  theater.  He 
could  easily  have  found  out." 

"Then  he  has  found  out.  You  may  bet  on  that, 
miss.  The  search  for  you  would  begin  the  minute 
they  discovered  you'd  given  'em  the  slip.  And  if  you 
was  to  try  and  get  to  London,  even,  the  railway  stations 
would  be  the  very  places  they'd  look  for  you." 

"  I  haven't  a  penny.  I  couldn't  go  to  London  if  I 
wanted  to,"  said  Winifred.  "I'm  even  in  debt  at  my 
lodgings  —  for  I  was  counting  on  my  salary  at  the  end 
of  the  week." 

"There  it  is,  you  see!" 

"Ah,  but  I  can  earn  money,  somehow.  Hide  me 
at  your  house,  and  I  swear  I'll  pay  you  back  one  day 
before  long.  Do  help  me.  In  a  few  minutes  it  will 
be  too  late." 

As  the  girl  talked  she  had  begun  unfastening  the 
hated  silken  garments  for  Mazeppas  great  scene. 
But,  as  she  would  have  begun  hurriedly  dressing  her- 
self in  her  own  clothes,  Mrs.  Purdy,  with  a  shrewd 


166  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

glint  in  her  little  eyes,  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  the 
girl's  arm. 

"If  you  want  to  get  off"  without  leaving  a  trace," 
she  said  quickly,  "you  mustn't  put  on  one  of  your 
own  things.  And  look  here,  it  isn't  payment  I  was 
thinkin'  of,  'twas  something  else.  My  gal's  got  diph- 
theria, and  I've  kep'  it  from  the  doctors,  so  she  could 
be  nussed  at  home,  she  cried  so  at  the  thought  of 
goin'  into  hospital.  She's  better  now,  but  she's  laid 
up  yet.  Ain't  you  afraid?" 

"No,"  answered  Winifred.  "I'll  help  nurse  her. 
I'm  a  good  nurse  —  my  mother  says  so." 

"There's  someone  helpin'  me  now  —  a  lodger.  But 
we  can  make  room  for  you  somehow,  only  you  may 
get  the  disease." 

"  I'd  rather  die  than  stay  here,"  cried  Winifred. 

"Well,  then,  this  is  what  I've  been  thinkin'.  Lucky 
enough,  when  I  come  I  puts  in  my  pocket  a  hood  I  was 
knittin'  for  my  gal.  It's  finished,  all  but  the  strings. 
And  this  worsted  shawl,  you  could  have  that.  No 
one  would  notice  I'd  took  it  off.  And  I  could  spare 
you  a  few  things,  my  theater  slippers,  and  I've  a 
petticoat  on,  was  a  dress-skirt  once,  only  made  a  bit 
shorter.  Then  you  could  leave  all  your  clothes  as 
they  are,  and  I'd  make  'em  think  you'd  gone  out  for 
your  scene  —  that  you  couldn't  have  left  the  theater, 
whatever  you  did.  I'd  keep  'em  waitin'  as  long  as  I 
could,  too.  If  only  you  had  a  thick  veil,  now,  to  hide 
your  face,  you  could  slip  out  of  this  room  while  Jeffrey's 
back  was  turned;  I'd  peep  first,  and  make  sure  you'd 
a  chance.  You  might  pass  by  every  stage  hand  about 
the  place,  and  the  door-keeper,  too,  before  anybody 
dreamed  you  weren't  bein'  dressed  in  here  for  your  next 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  167 

scene.  Miss  Emmet  —  one  of  the  ballet  girls  —  wears 
a  hood  like  this;  I  knitted  it  for  her  myself,  and  you're 
about  her  size.  She  leaves  the  theater  after  the  first 
act.  If  you  could  go  now  it  would  be  about  her  time, 
and  with  a  veil 

"My  black  chiffon  fichu,"  cried  Winifred. 
"Doubled,  it  would  hide  my  face." 

In  five  minutes  she  was  dressed  and  ready  to  go. 
Mrs.  Purdy  peered  out,  even  her  old  heart  beating 
fast  with  excitement.  Jeffrey  was  talking  to  Selim's 
groom  behind  the  big  screen.  No  one  was  looking. 
"Now!"  whispered  the  old  woman.  "Don't  forget 
the  way  I've  told  you  to  go  when  you  get  out.  Now's 
your  one  chance." 

Winifred  took  it.  Mrs.  Purdy  softly  shut  the  door 
after  her  and  locked  it,  muttering  to  herself.  She 
had,  while  getting  the  girl  ready  for  the  venture,  told 
her  how  she  must,  when  she  had  passed  through  the 
stage  entrance,  go  to  the  left,  take  the  second  turning 
to  the  right,  first  to  the  left  again,  and  so  on,  through 
confusing  directions,  until  she  should  come  to  a  little 
street  called  Salt  Street.  The  Purdy  house  was  No.  13 
(there  were  but  twenty  houses  in  the  street),  but  the 
old  woman  feared  that  Winifred  would  never  find 
her  way.  She  had  said  that  she  would  be  certain 
to  remember  the  directions,  since  so  much  depended 
on  not  forgetting;  still,  Mrs.  Purdy  doubted  that  the 
girl's  confused,  excited  mind  could  possibly  retain 
them  without  getting  hopelessly  mixed. 

She  had  done  all  that  she  could  do,  however,  and 
in  the  midst  of  her  misgivings  a  crabbed  sense  of 
humor  set  her  laughing  at  the  thought  of  Winifred 
Gray's  slim  little  feet  flopping  through  the  streets  in 


i68  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  Purdy  slippers  —  for  the  smart  patent-leather 
shoes  had  been  left  behind  with  everything  else  that 
was  Winifred's. 

The  old  woman's  meditations  were  interrupted  by 
another  call  from  the  stage  manager;  and  she  had 
gained  three  or  four  minutes'  time  for  the  fugitive  by 
her  complaints  that  it  was  difficult  to  dress  people 
who  were  fainting. 

"In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,"  was  her  motto; 
and  her  conscience  was  not  of  the  mimosa  type,  which 
shrinks  from  a  fib  or  two.  In  fact,  she  was  to  tell 
many  before  the  night  was  out,  and  with  such  innocent 
eyes  that  her  prevarications  would  have  done  credit 
to  an  accomplished  actress. 

But  she,  though  feeling  her  triumph,  was  desperately 
impatient  to  be  at  home.  "What  had  happened 
there  ?"  she  continued  to  ask  herself,  under  the  placid 
mask  of  the  commonplace,  dried-apple  face.  Had 
that  poor,  distracted  lassie  ever  found  her  way  through 
the  darkness  ? 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   LADY   IN   A  VEIL,  AND   A  MAN   IN  A  MASK 

ALL  went  well  with  Winifred,  so  far  as  she  could 
tell,  until  she  was  out  of  the  theater,  and  had  taken  a 
few  of  the  many  turnings  prescribed  by  her  friend. 
She  did  not  think  that  her  leaving  the  theater  had 
attracted  any  attention,  as  several  ladies  of  the  ballet, 
employed  in  the  first  act  only,  were  departing  for 
their  homes  about  the  same  time.  And  she  was  nearly 
certain  that,  at  all  events,  she  was  not  being  followed. 

When  she  had  gone  a  certain  distance,  however, 
she  began  to  feel  confused,  to  fear  that  she  had  taken 
a  wrong  turning,  and  might  do  so  again,  thus  getting 
hopelessly  lost,  unless  she  should  inquire  of  people 
whom  she  might  meet,  the  way  to  Salt  Street. 

But  Mrs.  Purdy  had  warned  her  against  the  risk 
of  making  inquiries  if  possible  to  avoid  it,  as  a  search 
for  her  would  certainly  be  instituted  by  the  person  she 
most  wished  to  shun.  He  would  very  likely  employ 
detectives,  and  someone  might  remember  having  been 
accosted  on  that  night  at  such  and  such  an  hour,  by  a 
veiled  woman  with  the  voice  of  a  lady,  asking  to  be 
directed  to  Salt  Street.  So  a  clever  detective  might 
be  put  upon  her  track,  and  Mrs.  Purdy  was  as  anxious 
to  avoid  such  a  mischance  as  Winifred  could  be;  for 
the  lies  she  must  tell  at  the  theater  would  put  her  in  a 
peculiar  position  if  they  should  be  found  out.  Mrs. 

169 


1 7o  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Purely  had  been  at  the  Thespian  Theater  as  dresser 
since  it  had  been  built  a  few  years  ago,  and  she  did 
not  wish  to  lose  her  place. 

Suddenly  Winifred  heard  the  lively  music  of  a 
banjo.  A  man's  voice  was  singing  a  darky  song. 
Not  one  of  the  songs  known  in  London  music-halls  as 
"genuine  plantation  ditties"  warbled  by  shapely 
young  ladies  in  broad  white  collars,  knickerbockers, 
and  silk  stockings,  attended  by  black-faced  "Picka- 
ninnies"; but  the  real  thing,  invented  by  Southern 
darkies  for  darkies  —  senseless,  tuneful,  contagious  of 
mirth.  It  was  that  quaint  bit  of  Kentucky  gibberish 
known  as  "Homemade  Chicken  Pie,"  and  the  people 
who  had  crowded  round  the  singer  to  listen  were  laugh- 
ing and  patting  their  feet,  some  of  them  joining  in  the 
chorus. 

They  were  collected  at  a  well-lighted  street  corner, 
and  Winifred  had  begun  to  wish  that  she  could  find 
a  quieter  thoroughfare  when  the  song  came  to  an  end. 

"Give  us  'Linger  Longer  Loo/  "  suggested  someone. 

"Can't,  thank  you.  Shop's  shut  up  for  to-night," 
laughed  the  man  who  had  been  singing,  with  a  South- 
ern American  accent,  which  might  or  might  not  be 
affected.  Something  in  the  voice  caused  Winifred 
to  pause  at  a  distance  outside  the  radius  of  the  nearest 
street  lamp,  and  try  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  speaker. 
He  was  tall,  and  wore  a  black  mask,  which  completely 
hid  his  face;  but  Winifred  was  sure  that  she  associated 
the  voice  with  some  incident  which  had  lately  happened. 

She  never  forgot  a  face  or  a  voice;  and  when  she 
had  thought  for  a  moment  or  two  the  elusive  memory 
was  enticed  back,  and  came  flying  swiftly,  like  a 
homing  pigeon. 


A  LADY  IN  A  VEIL  171 

"It  is  the  young  man  who  flung  that  strange  person 
off  the  box-seat  of  the  cab  on  my  last  night  at  the  Duke 
of  Clarence's,"  she  said  to  herself.  And  she  thought 
it  odd,  indeed,  that  he  should  be  singing,  masked,  in  a 
Brighton  Street  at  night.  At  first,  in  her  almost  morbid 
fear  of  detection,  she  wondered  if  his  presence  could 
possibly  have  anything  to  do  with  her;  but  in  an 
instant  she  had  decided  that  this  was  most  improbable. 

She  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  road  in  order 
to  avoid  the  light  and  the  crowd,  and  went  on  her  way 
—  or  what  she  hoped  was  her  way  —  not  turning  to 
look  back.  The  music  did  not  begin  again,  and, 
having  turned  a  corner  which  she  could  only  trust  was 
the  right  one,  she  found  herself  in  a  dark  and  quiet 
street. 

It  was  very  long  and  straight,  and  at  each  junction 
with  another  road  Winifred  paused  and  peered  through 
her  thick,  improvised  veil,  hoping  to  see  the  name  of 
Salt  Street.  If  it  were  not  somewhere  near  she  was 
wrong  in  her  calculations,  and  would  have  to  ask  the 
way  of  someone,  or  be  hopelessly  lost.  She  went  on 
thus,  slowly,  and  could  see  the  name  she  looked  for 
nowhere.  It  was  not  late,  but  most  of  the  houses  in 
this  quiet  street  appeared  to  have  gone  to  sleep  for  the 
night.  There  was  no  sound,  save  the  dulled  murmur 
of  distant  traffic,  so  that  a  footstep  coming  after  her 
seemed  unnaturally  loud. 

It  began  by  being  just  audible  far  away;  then  grew 
more  distinct,  till  it  rang  clearly  along  the  pavement. 
What  if,  after  all,  she  had  been  followed,  Winifred 
thought.  Somebody  might  have  watched  her,  waiting 
his  chance;  and  now  in  this  dark,  silent  street • 

She  could  not  follow  the  supposition  further  without 


172  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

turning  to  look  over  her  shoulder.  Against  her  will 
she  did  it,  feeling  as  if  some  power  other  than  her  own 
forced  her  head  round. 

The  dim  light  that  shone  through  a  yellow  window- 
blind  in  a  house  where  the  inmates  were  still  up, 
fell  upon  something  bright,  and  struck  out  a  gleam. 
It  was  the  metal  frame  of  a  banjo;  and  Winifred 
sighed  with  relief.  Instead  of  being  afraid,  she  was 
glad  that  the  man  was  near,  for  if  she  must  question 
anyone  she  felt  she  would  rather  trust  him  not  to 
betray  her  than  a  stranger. 

Even  supposing  he  recognized  her,  instinctively  she 
felt  that,  for  the  second  time,  he  would  do  what  he 
could  to  protect  rather  than  injure  her. 

He  came  on  rapidly  with  a  swinging  stride,  as  if 
he  were  in  a  hurry,  and  passed  Winifred  without 
paying  the  slightest  attention  to  the  slim  woman's 
figure  in  its  dark,  inconspicuous  clothing.  Just  as  he 
had  gone  by,  however,  she  summoned  courage  to 
speak.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  meekly,  "but 
can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Salt  Street  ?  I'm  afraid 
I  have  come  wrong." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  took  off  his  hat,  not  like 
a  seaside  minstrel,  but  like  a  gentleman.  "I'm  going 
to  Salt  Street,"  he  replied.  "It  isn't  far  from  here, 
but  there  are  a  couple  of  turns  still,  one  to  the  right 
and  one  to  the  left.  If  you  like,  I  could  show  you." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Winifred.  "I 
should  be  glad  if  you  would,  since  it  won't  be  taking 
you  out  of  your  way," 

They  walked  on  side  by  side,  but  at  some  distance 
apart,  and  neither  spoke.  Probably  the  man  fancied 
that  if  she  wished  for  conversation  on  the  way  she 


A  LADY  IN  A  VEIL  173 

would  set  the  ball  rolling.  They  took  the  two  turnings, 
and  presently  entered  Salt  Street,  the  masked  singer 
announcing  the  fact  in  a  businesslike  tone. 

Winifred  thanked  him  with  a  dismissing  "Good- 
night." Obediently,  her  late  guide  dropped  behind, 
his  occupation  gone;  but,  apparently  to  the  surprise 
of  both,  they  met  again  at  the  door  of  Number  Thirteen. 

The  lady  in  the  veil  and  the  man  in  the  mask  stopped, 
and  looked  at  each  other.  Then  off  came  the  man's 
hat  again.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  "but  I 
live  here.  Was  it  Number  Thirteen  you  wanted?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Winifred,  "I  thought  so.  Maybe 
I've  made  a  mistake.  Isn't  it  Mrs.  Purdy's  house  ?" 

"It  is,"  he  answered,  "and  I'm  Mrs.  Purdy's  lodger." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Winifred,  "she  spoke  of  you. 
She  said  you  had  been  good  to  her  sick  daughter." 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  do  very  much,"  replied  the 
masked  man.  "You  know  her  daughter's  ill,  then?" 

"Mrs.  Purdy  told  me." 

"I  don't  think,"  he  went  on,  "that  it's  right  for  you 
to  come  into  the  house.  Miss  Purdy's  better,  but ' 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  Winifred  broke  in.  "Mrs.  Purdy 
sent  me  here.  I  —  I  hope  I  can  be  taken  in.  It 
would  be  —  very  inconvenient  otherwise." 

"Of  course  you  can  be  taken  in,  if  you're  not  afraid. 
I  don't  believe  myself  there's  much  danger  now,  but 
one  never  knows;  and  for  your  sake,  I  wish  - 

"Please  don't  mind,"  she  interrupted  him  again. 
And  then,  hesitatingly:  "I  --think  I  recognize  your 
voice  as  one  —  I  have  heard  before." 

"I  recognized  yours  the  moment  you  spoke,"  he 
returned.  "But  I  thought  perhaps  I  ought  not  to 
say  so." 


174  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"As  you  are  Mrs.  Purdy's  lodger,  and  I  shall  be 
in  her  house  for  a  time,"  said  Winifred,  "we  are  sure 
to  see  each  other's  faces.  And  if  your  face  is  the  one 
I  think  it  is,  I  feel  certain  you  will  respect  my  wish 
to  have  no  one  know  that  I  am  here." 

"You  may  be  certain  of  that,"  he  answered,  and, 
fitting  a  latch-key  which  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket 
into  the  keyhole  of  a  small,  battered  door  in  a  mean 
little  house  in  a  row  of  other  mean  houses,  exactly 
like  it,  he  threw  the  door  open  for  Winifred  to 
walk  in. 

Inside  was  a  tiny  passage,  lit  by  a  common,  unshaded 
paraffin  lamp  suspended  from  the  wall  by  a  bracket, 
with  a  tin  reflector  as  a  background.  The  floor  was 
bare,  save  for  a  narrow  strip  of  carpeting  meant  to 
cover  a  stairway,  and  on  one  side  of  the  passage  were 
two  doors. 

"  Miss  Purdy's  in  that  room,"  said  the  masked  man, 
indicating  the  door  near  the  front.  "At  the  back 
here,  there's  a  sort  of  sitting-room  and  dining-room 
and  kitchen  all  in  one.  Will  you  walk  in  ?  —  and  I'll 
light  the  lamp." 

Winifred  did  walk  in,  and  in  a  moment,  after  some 
fumbling  with  matches,  darkness  was  turned  into 
light.  The  girl  saw  dimly  through  the  double  folds 
of  her  fichu  veil  a  small  room,  uncarpeted,  and  furnished 
only  with  a  red-covered  table,  a  few  chairs,  a  kitchen 
range,  plenty  of  shelves  for  brightly  polished  tins,  and 
cheap  blue  and  white  china.  A  queer  old-fashioned 
clock,  with  the  picture  of  a  pastoral  landscape  on  the 
door  under  its  face,  ticked  with  supernatural  energy 
on  a  very  narrow  mantel-piece  above  the  range.  Hang- 
ing over  this  was  a  vilely  executed  crayon  enlargement 


A  LADY  IN  A  VEIL  175 

of  a  photograph,  representing  a  good-looking  young 
woman  dressed  as  a  "  pantomime  boy." 

There  was  hardly  anything  else  in  the  room  save 
a  colored  mat  woven  of  rags,  which  adorned  the  bare 
floor  and  afforded  a  resting  place  for  a  large  black  cat; 
but  everything  was  spotlessly  clean,  and  despite  its 
poverty  the  poor  little  room  contrived  to  wear  an  air 
of  homely  comfort. 

Winifred's  heart  warmed  to  her  refuge.  Somehow, 
she  suddenly  discovered  that  she  was  not  as  unhappy 
as  she  had  been.  She  felt  a  sudden  accession  of 
courage  and  hope,  though  there  was  little  which  could 
reasonably  account  for  either  emotion. 

The  masked  singer  gave  her  a  chair,  and  she  sat 
down,  conscious  that  she  was  faintly  embarrassed  in 
his  presence.  He  had  recognized  her  voice,  just  as 
she  had  recognized  his;  they  knew  each  other,  and 
she  desired  to  account  to  him  in  some  commonplace 
manner  for  her  anomalous  position;  yet  she  did  not 
see  how  to  do  so  without  revealing  the  actual,  hate- 
ful truth. 

The  young  man  laid  his  banjo  on  the  table  beside  his 
hat,  and  began  removing  his  mask.  As  he  did  so,  with 
a  sudden  impulse  Winifred's  hands  went  up  to  the  knot 
which  tied  the  piece  of  chiffon  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

Perhaps  he  had  his  secret  as  well  as  she.  But  he 
was  trusting  her,  and  she  would  show  that  she  meant 
to  trust  him  as  well.  Many  wise  people,  knowing  her 
circumstances,  would  have  thought  her  exceedingly 
imprudent  to  do  this.  And  doubtless  she  was  impru- 
dent. But  she  did  not  fear  the  consequences.  And 
the  veil  and  the  mask  slipping  down  at  the  same  instant, 
the  man  and  the  girl  looked  into  each  other's  faces. 


176  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

The  man's  was  pale,  and  his  dark  eyes  were  bright. 
If  Winifred  had  possessed  the  slightest  clew  to  his 
strong  feeling  she  might  have  wondered  at  the  light 
in  his  eyes.  His  expression  was  that  which  a  man 
might  wear  in  dreaming  a  wonderful  dream  from 
which  he  feared  to  be  awakened.  But  Winifred  was 
not  in  a  mood  for  subtle  comparisons,  and  she  only 
realized  more  keenly  than  she  had  at  their  last  meeting, 
that  his  face  was  fine  and  virile,  and  singularly  attractive 
in  a  way  that  she  could  feel  without  analyzing. 

She  wondered,  nervously,  if  he  would  ask  any 
questions;  but  he  did  not,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
he  was  making  an  effort  to  pass  the  whole  matter  off  as 
if  it  were  but  a  mere  commonplace  occurrence  — 
nothing  to  excite  surprise  at  all. 

"I  must  go  to  Miss  Purdy's  door,  and  knock  softly, 
to  find  out  whether  she's  sleeping  still,  or  if  she's 
waked  up  and  wants  anything,"  he  announced.  "After 
a  fashion  I'm  acting  nurse  when  the  poor  girl's  mother's 
away;  but  she's  so  well  again  now  that  she  can  be 
left  alone  for  awhile,  so  I  went  out  for  an  hour.  I'll 
be  back  in  a  minute,  and  perhaps  you'll  let  me  get  you 
something  to  eat  or  drink,  if — if  you're  tired." 

As  he  spoke  he  had  been  gazing  at  her  with  a  wistful- 
ness  that  would  not  be  concealed.  Winifred  guessed 
that  she  must  be  pallid  and  weary-looking  after  all  she 
had  gone  through,  and  fancied  that  her  white  face  had 
suggested  his  stammering  offer. 

His  manner  seemed  to  her  curiously  comforting  and 
helpful,  though  he  had  made  no  offer  of  help  or  hinted 
his  suspicion  that  she  might  need  it.  While  he  was 
gone  from  the  room  Winifred  listened  attentively 
to  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  in  the  passage,  his  low- 


A  LADY  IN  A  VEIL  177 

toned  conversation  with  the  sick  girl,  and  was  glad 
when  he  came  back  again  —  a  warming,  protected  glad- 
ness as  of  one  who  has  found  safe  haven  after  storm. 

"  I  always  make  myself  a  cup  of  tea  or  cocoa  when 
I  come  in  about  this  time,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
returned  to  the  kitchen-sitting-room.  "Mrs.  Purdy 
has  given  me  permission,  and  I  feel  myself  very  much 
at  home.  Won't  you  have  some  tea,  or  do  you  like 
cocoa  better  at  night?" 

"I  should  like  tea  very  much,  thank  you,"  Wini- 
fred answered. 

She  leaned  back  in  the  cheap,  old  easy  chair  and 
watched  him.  There  was  something  wonderfully 
restful  about  it,  after  all  she  had  passed  through. 

He  seemed  to  understand  by  instinct  that  she  was 
too  weary  and  worn  to  talk,  and  went  quietly  about 
his  work. 

In  this  little  household  extra  lumps  of  coal  and 
kindling  were  luxuries,  so  the  fire  had  not  been  lighted. 
Hope  Newcome  boiled  the  water  over  a  spirit  lamp,  and 
before  the  kettle  had  begun  to  sing  he  cut  thin,  tempting 
slices  of  bread,  and  buttered  them.  He  knew  where 
to  find  everything,  and  performed  his  self-appointed 
task  with  the  skill  of  one  who  has  cooked  himself  many 
a  meal  at  times  and  in  places  when  otherwise  he  would 
have  had  none. 

There  was  a  glass  of  milk  for  the  sick  girl  in  the 
next  room,  and  when  it  had  been  carried  to  her  the 
tea  had  stood  long  enough  to  be  good.  A  pleasant 
fragrance  filled  the  little  room.  Feeling  like  one  in 
a  dream,  Winifred  ate  bread  and  butter  and  sipped 
strong  tea.  It  was  a  very  strange  thing,  but  nothing 
on  earth  had  ever  tasted  so  nice. 


178  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"What  delicious  tea  you  make!"  she  said. 

"Do  I?  I'm  glad,"  he  answered.  "I  used  to 
make  it  for  my  mother." 

"And  my  mother  used  to  make  it  for  me!"  the 
girl  exclaimed.  Then  suddenly  it  struck  her  that  it 
was  curious  they  two  should  have  been  thrown  together 
again,  and  be  talking  most  familiarly  in  a  calm,  every- 
day way,  ignoring  all  that  made  each  one's  heart  sad 
or  anxious,  and  knowing  absolutely  nothing  of  one 
another's  lives. 

Yet  now  that  she  thought  of  it,  did  this  man  know 
nothing  of  her  life  ?  She  had  told  him  nothing,  but  he 
had  been  at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  that  night,  and 
now  he  was  here  in  Brighton.  He  might  have  had 
some  superficial  knowledge  of  her  as  an  actress  in  the 
beginning,  and  possibly  he  had  asked  questions.  At 
least,  he  could  hardly  be  ignorant  of  her  name  after 
what  he  had  done  in  her  service  outside  the  stage-door 
of  the  London  theater;  and  if  he  remembered  it,  he 
must  know  that  Winifred  Gray  was  billed  to  act  in 
Mazeppa  to-night  and  after.  . 

The  blood  rushed  up  to  her  face  as  this  conviction 
seized  her.  What  he  had  not  already  learned  Mrs. 
Purdy  would  probably  tell  him.  Somehow  the  girl 
could  hardly  bear  that  he  should  know  all  the  truth. 
It  would  be  horrible  to  feel  that  she  was  associated 
in  his  mind  with  a  man  of  Lionel  Macaire's  repu- 
tation. 

Of  course,  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
care  what  this  poverty-stricken  young  minstrel,  who 
masked  himself  and  played  his  banjo  in  the  public 
streets,  thought  of  her,  even  though,  whatever  his 
outward  circumstances,  he  was  certainly  by  birth  and 


A  LADY  IN  A  VEIL  179 

breeding  a  gentleman.  Still,  Winifred  did  care,  dis- 
proportionately, cruelly. 

She  was  seized  with  a  vivid  desire  to  discover  how 
much  he  already  knew.  All  the  brief,  sweet  restful- 
ness  had  vanished  with  those  thoughts. 

"Do  you  know  my  name  ?"  she  asl^ed  abruptly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  without  hesitation.  "I  hope 
you  don't  mind  my  remembering  it  so  well.  You  are 
Miss  Winifred  Gray.  I  couldn't  help  inquiring  at 
the  theater  that  night;  and  the  door-keeper  told  me. 
As  for  me  —  not  that  you'd  be  interested,  still,  I'd 
like  to  tell  you.  I  call  myself  Hope  Newcome.  It's 
not  my  real  name;  I  merely  chose  it  because  it  meant 
something  to  me,  for  a  sort  of  mission  that  brought 
me  to  England,  and  I  shall  drop  it  when  that  mis- 
sion's done.  But  I  haven't  told  anybody  else  this." 

"Thank  you  for  trusting  me,"  said  Winifred, 
guessing  that  he  had  told  her  just  to  show  his  trust, 
and  to  let  her  see  that  she  was  not  the  only  one  who 
had  secrets  to  keep.  "I  can't  feel  that  we're  strangers 
after  what  you  did  for  me  that  night.  I've  never 
forgotten.  But  there  are  other  things  I  want  to  ask 
you  about.  Did  you  know  that  I  was  to  have  acted 
in  Brighton  ?  Of  course,  though,  you  must  have 
seen  the  bills." 

As  she  spoke  her  eyes  fell  and  her  color  rose,  for 
she  seemed  to  see  one  terrible  poster  with  a  crowd 
about  it.  Perhaps  he  had  been  one  of  that  crowd,  or 
another  like  it. 

"I  knew,  yes,"  said  Hope  Newcome,  and  flushed 
a  little  also,  for  it  was  because  he  had  known  that  he 
had  come  to  Brighton.  But  he  would  not  tell  her  that. 

He  could  not  tell  her  how  he  had  been  tempted  that 


i8o  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

night  when  he  had  first  seen  her  (and  the  whole  world 
had  seemed  the  brighter  and  sweeter  for  his  knowl- 
edge of  her)  to  follow  and  find  out  where  she  lived, 
merely  that  he  might  sometimes  pass  the  house  and 
look  up  at  the  windows.  He  could  not  tell  her  of  his 
astonishment  and  pain  when  he  had  read  in  a  paper 
that  Miss  Winifred  Gray  had  suddenly  severed  her 
connection  with  the  Duke  of  Clarence's  Theater.  He 
had  meant  somehow  to  get  the  money  for  a  seat  on  the 
first  night  of  As  You  Like  It  to  see  her  as  Celia,  but 
the  Duke  of  Clarence's  lost  its  attraction  for  him  when 
he  knew  that  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PARTNERS 

HE  could  not  tell  her  that,  nor  how  often  he  had 
thought  of  her,  wondering  whether  she  were  still  in 
London;  whether  she  were  ill  or  well;  whether  she 
were  "resting"  or  rehearsing  for  some  new  play  of 
which  he  had  missed  the  announcement. 

He  could  hardly  have  looked  her  in  the  face  to-night 
if  she  could  have  guessed  how,  when  he  had  read 
that  she  was  in  Brighton,  he  had  hastily  answered 
an  advertisement  in  a  dramatic  paper  requiring  a 
banjo-player  and  singer  of  American  "plantation" 
melodies,  for  a  negro  minstrel  party  to  open,  at  an 
early  date,  at  a  cheap  music-hall  in  that  seaside  town. 
He  could  play  the  banjo  well,  and  a  very  good  one 
which  he  had  had  since  his  college  days  was  still  in 
his  possession;  that  is,  grim  necessity  had  not  yet 
obliged  him  to  pawn  it. 

He  had  got  the  engagement,  as  the  manager  was 
in  a  hurry  and  ready  to  take  almost  anybody.  And 
he  had  been  delighted  with  the  chance,  though  he 
would  have  to  black  his  face  with  burnt  cork  every 
night,  associate  with  cads  and  bounders,  and  receive 
in  exchange  for  his  services  the  sum  of  one  pound 
a  week. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,,  the  pound  was  forthcoming 
for  one  week,  and  no  more.  Business  was  bad,  and 


182  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  manager  disappeared  before  treasury  day  of  the 
second  week,  leaving  the  five  members  of  the  troupe 
to  do  as  best  they  could. 

What  Hope  Newcome  did  was  to  stay  and  help 
his  landlady  take  care  of  her  sick  daughter.  When 
his  funds  failed  he  put  on  a  mask,  which  Mrs.  Purdy 
made  at  his  request,  and  went  out  into  the  street  or 
down  by  the  sea  with  his  banjo,  earning  not  only 
money  enough  to  pay  his  way,  but  to  provide  some 
little  delicacies  for  the  invalid,  which  otherwise  she 
would  have  had  to  do  without. 

Unassisted,  he  would  perhaps  not  have  thought  of 
this  method  of  re-filling  his  empty  pockets,  but  when 
the  "ghost"  ceased  to  "walk"  for  the  "Six  Jolly 
Niggers,"  Clara  Purdy  had  suggested  the  idea.  New- 
come  had  come  to  occupy  the  one  room  her  mother 
had  to  let,  before  a  cold  had  developed  for  her  into 
serious  illness,  and  she  had  recently  been  earning  a 
few  shillings  in  the  same  way  herself.  Having  no 
engagement  for  this  year,  she  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  going  out,  masked,  to  sing  popular  music-hall  airs, 
with  a  sweet,  untrained  voice;  and  she  had  thought 
that  Hope  Newcome  might  utilize  his  rich  tenor  and 
his  banjo. 

So  he  had  taken  her  advice,  and  had  been  in 
Brighton  thfee  weeks.  But  there  was  very  little  of 
this  which  could  be  explained  or  even  mentioned  to 
Winifred  Gray.  And  if  he  could  tell  her  nothing 
about  himself,  still  less  could  he  ask  her  questions. 
He  must  be  content  for  the  present  with  the  crumbs 
that  she  cared  to  throw  to  him. 

And  how  content  he  was !  As  if  it  mattered  what 
wind  had  buffeted  her  within  his  reach,  if  she 


PARTNERS  183 

were  not  hurt  by  its  roughness,  since  here  she  was 
beside  him! 

"Yes,  I  knew  you  were  here,"  he  had  said,  simply. 
And  the  answer  seemed  bald  and  cold  enough,  com- 
pared with  the  whole  reality  which  he  had  in  his 
thoughts.  "I  knew  it  some  weeks  ago.  You  were 
here  before  I  was." 

He  had  not  referred  to  her  question  about  the  pos- 
ters. But  perhaps  he  had  only  forgotten  to  speak 
of  them.  Perhaps  he  had  not  seen  those  horrible 
new  ones  of  which  that  girl  at  the  theater  had  told  her. 

"Did  Mrs.  Purdy  speak  of  me?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  not  to  me.  Since  she  went  to  the  dress  rehear- 
sal she  hasn't  spoken  of  anyone  in  particular  at  the 
theater;  and,  of  course,  as  there's  been  nothing  going 
on  there  except  rehearsals,  she  wasn't  at  the  place 
till  then,  since  you  came  to  Brighton." 

Newcome  might  have  added  that  he  had  taken  the 
room  in  Mrs.  Purdy's  house  because  someone  at  the 
music-hall  had  told  him  she  acted  as  a  dresser  at  the 
theater;  and  that  he  had  tried  to  extract  from  her 
some  information  concerning  Miss  Gray,  after  the 
dress  rehearsal  of  Mazeppa,  but  had  not  gone  about 
it  tactfully  enough  to  get  the  satisfaction  he  wanted. 
He  kept  this  part,  however,  untold. 

"You  must  be  wondering  very  much  why  I  am  here 
instead  of  playing  my  part  on  the  first  night,"  Wini- 
fred said  hesitatingly,  not  sure  yet  how  far  she  meant 
to  go  in  explanation. 

"  I'm  not  thinking  about  that,"  Newcome  answered. 
"I  am  only  thinking  that  I  should  like  to  help  make 
you  comfortable  now  you  are  here." 

"I  simply  couldn't  play  the  part  as  they  wanted 


184  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

it  done,"  the  girl  faltered  on.  "They  deceived  me 
up  to  the  very  last,  on  purpose,  of  course,  because 
they  must  have  known  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  had  been 
told  in  time.  They  hoped  that  at  the  last  moment 
they  could  force  me  to  take  their  way.  But  I  would 
not.  Still,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mrs.  Purdy  they 
might  have  succeeded.  She  helped  me  to  get  away, 
and  nobody  at  the  theater  guessed.  When  they  found 
out  that  I  was  gone  —  as  they  must  have,  long  ago 
now  —  I  don't  know  what  they  could  have  done.  I 
suppose  they  sent  someone  else  on  in  my  place.  But 
I  can't  care  much,  because  it  was  like  a  plot,  and  I  had 
to  save  myself,  since  they  were  determined  that  I 
should  wear  —  that  I  should  play  the  part  exactly  in 
their  way.  I  don't  want  them  to  know  where  I  am. 
It's  to  be  quite  a  secret,  if  it  can  be  kept  so.  And  oh, 
I  hope  it  can!" 

"It  shall  be,"  said  Hope  Newcome.  His  firm 
tone  gave  the  girl  courage,  and  she  felt  a  thrill  of 
gratitude. 

They  were  still  talking  together  when  Mrs.  Purdy 
came  home  with  the  news  of  the  theater  and  all  that 
had  happened  after  Winifred's  disappearance. 

Winifred  flew  down  the  passage  to  meet  the  old 
woman,  when  her  latch-key  was  heard  scraping  in  the 
lock.  She  wanted  time  for  one  whispered  caution 
before  her  hostess  should  come  into  the  sitting-room. 

"If  you  guess  the  name  of  the  man  I  most  want 
to  escape  from,"  she  said  hurriedly  in  Mrs.  Purdy's 
ear,  "please  don't  mention  it  to  anyone,  not  even 
your  daughter  or  your  lodger,  will  you  ?  I  can't 
bear  to  think  that  people  should  know  in  what  a  hor- 
rible way  I  have  been  persecuted." 


PARTNERS  185 

"If  I've  a  thought  in  my  mind  about  that,  there 
it  stays  locked  up,"  rejoined  the  old  woman.  "The 
name  I  was  thinkin'  of  isn't  known  to  the  public  as 
the  manager  of  the  play,  and  there's  no  reason  why 
anyone  here  who  ain't  in  theatrical  secrets  should  put 
it  alongside  o'  yours." 

"That  is  what  I  hope,"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "And 
now  I'm  so  anxious  to  hear  all  you  have  to  say.  Your 
lodger  has  been  very  kind  to  me.  But  I've  been 
impatient  for  you  to  come  and  tell  me  if  there's  any 
suspicion " 

"Not  a  jot,  thanks  to  my  lies,"  broke  in  the  old 
woman.  "I've  told  a  pack  this  night,  and  my  only 
hope  is  that  I  may  be  forgiven,  as  'twas  in  a  good 
cause.  When  I've  had  a  peep  at  my  gal  I'll  come 
into  the  sittin'-room  and  tell  you  everything." 
i  She  was  as  good  as  her  word;  and  presently  Wini- 
fred's mind  was  relieved,  for  the  moment,  of  the 
fear  that  Mrs.  Purdy's  complicity  in  her  act  or  the 
hiding  place  chosen,  had  been  suspected  by  anyone 
at  the  theater. 

Later,  Hope  Newcome  had  also  a  private  word 
for  the  old  woman's  ear.  He  wanted  to  give  up  his 
room  to  Miss  Gray  without  letting  her  know  what 
he  was  doing,  and  transfer  his  few  belongings  to  the 
storeroom  behind  it,  where  a  bed  of  some  sort  might 
be  made  upon  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Purdy  had  mentally  apportioned  this  poor 
accommodation  to  her  unexpected  guest,  since  she 
herself  slept  in  a  cot  in  her  daughter's  room  down- 
stairs; but  since  Mr.  Newcome  was  willing  to  endure 
inconvenience,  there  was  no  reason  against  it;  and 
it  was  like  him,  that  was  all  she  had  to  say! 


i86  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

So  Winifred  was  made  comfortable  at  the  expense 
of  her  knight,  blissfully  ignorant  that  he  was  sacri- 
ficing himself  for  her  sake. 

Next  morning  she  made  Clara  Purdy's  acquaint- 
ance, and  Clara's  fertile  mind,  alert  in  her  conva- 
lescence, suggested  a  method  by  which  Winifred's 
safety  from  pursuit  might  be  further  secured.  Clara 
was  a  red-haired  girl,  but  her  tresses  were  neither 
long,  curly,  nor  abundant.  One  year  in  a  provincial 
pantomime  she  had  played  the  fairy  queen,  and  she 
had  worn  a  ruddy  wig,  which  was  an  improvement 
upon  her  own  hair.  That  wig  had  been  preserved 
with  care  since  then  as  an  expensive  "prop,"  which 
might  be  found  useful  at  any  time;  and  in  going  out 
to  sing  in  the  streets  this  autumn  she  had  worn  it,  as 
being  more  attractive,  when  hanging  on  her  shoulders, 
than  her  own  rather  scanty  locks. 

She  was  ill  now,  and  not  likely  to  leave  her  room 
for  ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  Meanwhile  Miss  Gray 
might  have  the  wig  if  she  would  take  it;  and  as  Miss 
Gray's  "make-up"  box  had  been  left  in  her  dress- 
ing room  at  the  Thespian  Theater,  with  many  other 
things  that  were  hers,  Miss  Gray  was  at  liberty  to  use 
Clara's,  which  had  not  done  duty  since  the  panto- 
mime last  year.  Miss  Gray  might  make  up  with  a  wig 
and  grease  paints  to  look  quite  different  from  herself; 
and  then,  if  any  prying  eyes  spied  her  through  door 
or  window,  she  would  never  be  associated  with  the 
young  lady  who  had  run  away  from  the  Thespian. 

Clara's  advice  was  taken,  to  a  certain  extent.  Win- 
ifred did  wear  the  wig,  and  blackened  the  soft  natural 
darkness  of  her  brows  and  lashes  to  give  the  same 
somewhat  startling  contrast  presented  by  Miss  Purdy's 


PARTNERS  187 

own.  Seeing  her  so,  a  stranger  but  casually  acquainted 
with  Clara's  appearance  might,  after  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  her,  go  away  and  say  that  he  had  seen 
Mrs.  Purdy's  daughter. 

A  day  or  two  passed  and  Winifred  remained  closely 
in  hiding.  Accounts  from  the  theater  were  satisfac- 
tory. Suspicion  had  not  turned  toward  Mrs.  Purdy 
or  Mrs.  Purdy's  house,  and  Winifred  had  so  far  some 
cause  for  satisfaction.  Nevertheless,  she  was  rest- 
less and  utterly  miserable. 

It  was  dreadful  to  be  living  on  charity,  with  no 
present  prospect  of  being  able  to  repay  the  debt  of 
gratitude  she  owed,  and  the  girl  chafed  under  her 
burden  of  humiliation. 

One  of  the  first  things  she  had  done  after  finding 
sanctuary  at  the  house  in  Salt  Street  was  to  write  a 
letter  to  her  mother.  Even  to  do  that  she  had  been 
obliged  to  beg  paper  and  a  postage  stamp. 

It  had  been  a  difficult  letter  to  write,  because  Mrs. 
Gray's  state  was  still  critical,  in  so  far  that  the  least 
excitement  might  induce  a  relapse.  Something  she 
had  to  be  told,  lest  strange  rumors  might  reach  and 
distress  her;  but  Winifred  had  weighed  each  word 
as  she  set  it  down  on  paper.  She  explained  that 
unfortunately  she  had  had  a  "misunderstanding  with 
the  management,"  and  at  the  last  moment  thrown 
over  the  part  of  Mazeppa,  which  she  had  felt  she  could 
not  play  according  to  their  requirements.  They  had 
been  angry,  threatening  legal  proceedings;  and  at 
present  she  did  not  wish  her  whereabouts  to  be  known. 
Her  dear  one  must  not  worry,  but  instead  of  letting 
the  nurse  write,  or  scrawling  a  few  pencil  lines  herself 
to  the  theater,  she  must  address  Miss  W.  Graham 


188  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Post  Restante,  Brighton.  And  then  she  begged  that 
a  word  or  two  might  be  sent  to  her  soon.  But  no 
word  came,  though  Hope  Newcome  called  at  the 
post-office  twice  a  day. 

Winifred  grew  desperately  anxious.  She  longed 
to  telegraph  to  the  head  nurse  of  the  "home"  where 
her  mother  was,  but  she  had  not  a  penny;  and  though 
she  often  tried  to  find  courage  enough  to  ask  for  a 
loan,  she  invariably  failed  at  the  last  moment. 

The  Purdys  were  very  poor.  They  had  nothing 
save  what  they  could  earn  and  Clara  had  not  been  a 
bread-winner  for  many  weeks.  It  was  bad  enough  to 
be  wearing  their  clothes  and  eating  their  bread,  with- 
out borrowing  their  hard-won  shillings. 

But,  though  the  girl  could  keep  silence,  she  could 
not  hide  the  fever  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes.  Hope  New- 
come  saw  it  there,  and  asked  her  straight  out  what 
was  the  matter.  Was  she  not  comfortable  ?  Was 
she  in  a  great  hurry  to  bring-  her  short  stay  in  this 
poor  little  house  —  so  unworthy  of  her  —  to  an  end  ? 
Above  all,  was  there  anything  that  he  could  do  ? 

She  did  not  dream  of  what  he  was  already  doing. 
She  did  not  know  that  his  long  absences  from  the 
house  were  all  for  money-getting,  that  little  delica- 
cies might  be  bought  to  tempt  her  appetite,  or  a  bunch 
of  flowers  to  bring  a  fleeting  smile  to  her  face. 

So  she  answered  that  he  could  do  nothing.  She 
was  only  rather  worried  at  not  hearing  from  her 
mother,  who  was  ill  at  a  nursing  home  in  London. 

"Why  don't  you  telegraph  ?"  he  answered. 

Winifred  flushed,  and  did  not  answer.  Then  he 
knew  what  he  had  already  suspected.  He  had  posted 
the  letter  she  had  sent  to  Mrs.  Gray,  and  though  he 


PARTNERS  189 

had  not  meant  to  look,  had  accidentally  seen  the  num- 
ber of  the  house  in  Welbeck  Street  and  had  since  been 
unable  to  forget  it. 

He  hesitated  for  a  while,  and  then  went  out,  hav- 
ing made  up  his  mind.  Three  hours  later  he  brought 
home  a  telegram  addressed  to  "Miss  W.  Graham, 
Chief  Post-office,  Brighton." 

"Mrs.  Gray  had  relapse,  unable  to  read  or  write 
letters,"  the  girl  read  with  a  sick  throbbing  of  the 
heart.  "We  hope  no  cause  for  serious  alarm.  Now 
we  have  address  will  write  same  when  further  news/' 

This  message  was  signed  by  the  head  nurse,  and 
for  a  few  minutes,  in  her  grief  and  terror,  Winifred 
had  no  time  to  wonder  how  or  why  it  had  come.  She 
looked  upon  the  telegram  as  a  long-delayed  answer 
to  the  letter  she  had  sent  to  her  mother.  But  when 
she  grew  calmer  she  realized  that  this  could  hardly 
be,  and  guessed  what  Hope  Newcome  must  have  done. 

He  had  taken  a  liberty,  perhaps,  but  it  was  not 
hard  to  forgive  him,  especially  when,  being  accused, 
he  admitted  his  guilt,  looking  shamed  and  unhappy, 
his  eyes  wistful  as  he  begged  for  pardon. 

After  this  Winifred  grew  somewhat  more  confi- 
dent with  him,  confessing  that  she  had  great  need  of 
money.  She  must  earn  some  before  she  could  try  to 
steal  quietly  away  from  Brighton,  or  pay  the  debt 
which  she  felt  was  increasing  every  day  that  she  lin- 
gered at  the  little  house  in  Salt  Street. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  go  out  with  you  and  sing?" 
she  suddenly  flashed  at  him.  "In  these  clothes,  with 
this  wig  of  Clara  Purdy's  and  a  mask  like  yours,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  my  own  mother  to  know 


190  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

me,  except  that  she  would  recognize  my  voice  in  sing- 
ing, which  nobody  here  could  do.  And  I  can  sing. 
I  can  really.  Once  I  hoped  to  be  a  singer  instead  of 
an  actress,  but  that  was  long  ago.  I  haven't  had 
time  for  singing  lately.  But  I  shall  do  well  enough 
for  the  street." 

She  was  sorry  for  those  last  words  the  instant  they 
were  uttered,  lest  his  feelings,  since  he  sang  in  the 
street,  should  be  hurt.  But  if  they  were,  his  man- 
ner and  face  kept  the  secret.  He  did  not  seem  to 
think  of  himself  at  all,  but  only  of  her.  It  would 
be  impossible  that  she  should  do  what  she  proposed, 
jhe  said.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment. 

But  Winifred  did  think  of  it;  and  the  more  she 
thought  the  more  practicable  seemed  the  idea.  She 
had  no  fear  of  being  recognized  in  Clara  Purdy's 
clothes,  mask,  and  wig;  and  neither  Lionel  Macaire 
nor  any  member  of  the  Maxefpa  Company  had  ever 
heard  her  sing.  Indeed,  no  one  whose  presence  she 
need  fear  in  Brighton  would  know  her  singing  voice. 

Hope  Newcome  made  money  enough  to  tide  him 
over  a  crisis  in  his  financial  affairs;  why  should  not 
she  ?  Surely  there  was  no  disgrace  in  trying  to  earn 
an  honest  living,  and  this  seemed  the  only  road  open 
to  her.  She  would  think  of  it,  and  talk  of  it,  and 
insist,  despite  her  new  friend's  protestations,  until  at 
last  he  began  to  understand  that  she  would  be  better 
in  health  and  happier  in  mind  if  she  were  allowed  to 
have  her  own  way. 

He  consented  to  take  her  with  him;  and  quite  as 
excited  as  she  had  ever  been  on  a  first  night  in  a  new 

O 

part  she  lifted  up  her  voice  to  sing  in  the  public  street, 
accompanied  by  Hope  Newcome's  banjo. 


PARTNERS  191 

The  pair  attracted  quite  a  crowd,  and  when  the 
masked  man  held  out  his  banjo  afterwards  a  shower 
of  small  silver  and  coppers  went  clinking  in.  At 
home  later  they  counted  their  takings,  and  found  that 
they  had  made  six  shillings.  This  was  unusual  luck, 
and  Newcome  attributed  it  entirely  to  the  charm  of 
Winifred's  voice.  He  generally  averaged  two  shil- 
lings, he  said;  and,  of  course,  this  was  all  hers,  every 
penny  of  it. 

But  Winifred  would  not  listen  to  such  arguments. 
They  were  partners  or  nothing.  She  would  not  touch 
the  money  unless  he  would  take  half.  Seeing  anger 
in  her  eyes,  Newcome  had  to  yield.  And  after  this 
they  went  out  together  every  day. 

Winifred's  eyes,  shadowed  by  her  mask,  roamed 
hither  and  thither  as  she  stood  singing  in  the  King's 
Road  or  in  less  important  thoroughfares.  Once  they 
were  near  a  large  hoarding  which  had  displayed  a 
poster  of  Mazeppa,  but  everything  was  torn  away 
save  a  bit  of  colored  paper  at  the  top  and  half  the 
name  at  the  bottom. 

Winifred  could  scarcely  bear  to  look  at  this,  fear- 
ing that  the  poster  might  have  been  one  of  the  dreaded 
ones,  and  that  Hope  Newcome  might  have  seen  it 
in  all  its  horror  before  some  kind  hand  had  torn  it 
down.  She  did  not  even  guess  whose  hand  had 
served  her  —  not  only  in  this  one  instance,  but  in 
many  others.  Newcome,  however,  could  have  told 
if  he  would;  though  he  would  probably  have  died  by 
slow  torture  rather  than  speak  of  all  those  vile  paper 
desecrations,  save  with  murmured  profanity  under 
his  breath. 

Winifred  looked,  too,  for  faces  from  the  theater; 


i92  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

but  not  one  did  she  chance  to  see  until,  late  one  after- 
noon, Lionel  Macaire  had  passed  her  by  without  a 
glance.  Then  had  come  the  episode  of  the  fight 
which  had  been  begun  to  save  her  mask  from  being 
torn  aside  by  rude  fingers.  She  had  rushed  away, 
adjured  by  Newcome,  and  had  not  been  there  to  see 
the  millionaire  when  he  returned  again. 

She  had  her  reasons  for  not  wishing  it  known  that 
she  and  Lionel  Macaire  were  acquaintances.  Hope 
Newcome  had  given  a  promise  that  his  dealings  with 
the  man  should  remain  a  secret;  and  so  it  was  that 
Fate  began  to  play  a  pretty  game  of  cross-purposes 
between  the  man  and  the  girl  who  called  each  other 
"  partners." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   JEWEL   IN   THE   TOAD'S    HEAD 

IN  all  Winifred's  confidences  to  Hope  Newcome 
during  their  quaint  "partnership"  she  never  uttered 
the  name  of  Lionel  Macaire,  mentioning  only  the 
business  manager  of  the  Mazeppa  Company  in  the 
complaints,  which  were  hints  rather  than  outspoken 
statements.  But  Newcome  had  seen  the  obnoxious 
posters  (indeed,  had  the  girl  known  it,  he  had  done 
much  more  than  see  them)  and  he  could  read  hidden 
meanings  into  her  few  stammered  words. 

When  she  confided  to  him,  however,  the  fact  that  she 
had  striven  to  cover  her  flight  with  such  secrecy, 
principally  because  she  feared,  from  Mrs.  Purdy's 
warnings,  that  the  management  might  obtain  and 
enforce  an  order  of  arrest,  imprisoning  her  for  breach 
of  contract,  unlearned  as  he  was  in  the  matter  of 
English  law,  he  was  able  to  laugh  away  her  terrors. 
Nothing  of  this  sort  could  possibly  happen,  he  had 
assured  her  after  a  long  confidential  talk  on  the  night 
after  the  making  of  his  queer  bargain  with  Macaire. 
She  would  probably  be  sued  for  breach  of  contract, 
and  large  damages  would  be  claimed,  that  was  all,  he 
informed  her.  When  the  case  came  on,  if  it  should  go 
against  her  in  spite  of  the  defense  she  would  be  able 
to  make,  she  would  be  called  upon  to  pay  a  sum  of 
money  and  her  adversary's  costs.  If  she  could  not 

193 


194  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

pay,  she  might  be  made  bankrupt,  which  would  be 
disagreeable  perhaps;  but  no  one  would  think  any 
the  less  of  her;  and,  besides,  as  she  was  in  a  position 
to  bring  such  grave  counter-charges,  the  enemy  would 
most  likely  only  bluster  and  threaten,  and  never  pro- 
ceed against  her  at  all. 

This  information  changed  the  face  of  affairs  for 
the  girl.  If  she  could  she  would  still  gladly  have 
kept  her  whereabouts  from  Lionel  Macaire's  knowl- 
edge, for  he  was  a  treacherous  foe.  But  now  that 
she  knew  how  mistaken  her  childish  panic  had  been 
she  no  longer  felt  the  one  necessary  thing  to  be  con- 
cealment —  concealment  at  almost  any  cost. 

Since  she  had  heard  of  her  mother's  relapse  she 
had  been  desperately  anxious  to  get  back  to  London, 
and  now  that  she  realized  the  enemy's  compara- 
tive powerlessness  over  her,  only  the  lack  of  money 
held  her  back.  She  had  earned  a  few  shillings 
by  her  singing,  but  she  had  handed  these  to  Mrs. 
Purdy  in  payment  for  her  board  and  lodging;  and 
Mrs.  Purdy,  being  very  poor,  had  felt  obliged  to  accept 
them. 

Hope  Newcome  had  guessed  her  difficulties  with- 
out being  told,  for  his  mind  was  sensitized  by  his 
passionate  love  for  the  girl,  and  her  thoughts,  as 
they  passed  through  her  brain,  seemed  often  to  print 
themselves  upon  his.  If  he  had  not  engaged  himself 
to  go  to  London  and  train  for  the  coming  event,  which 
might  mean  everything  for  his  future,  it  would  have 
been  hard  for  him  to  bid  her  good-by.  But  as  it  was, 
though  his  bargain  with  Macaire  was  to  be  so  pro- 
found a  secret,  Newcome  was  joyous  at  the  prospect 
of  Winifred's  departure  to  London.  Even  if  he  did 


THE  JEWEL  IN  THE  TOAD'S  HEAD      195 

not  see  her  there  for  many  a  day  to  come  it  would  be 
something  to  feel  that  she  was  not  far  away. 

Not  only  did  he  advise  her  to  go  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble to  her  mother,  but,  when  he  had  received  the  fifty 
pounds  promised  in  advance  from  Macaire,  he  sent 
half  the  sum  anonymously  to  Winifred. 

Just  how  he  should  do  this  had  been  a  puzzle. 
She  would  not  take  money  from  him,  that  was  cer- 
tain. He  could  not  forge  a  letter  from  the  girl's 
mother,  or  from  the  brother  of  whom  she  had  spoken 
rather  sadly  once  or  twice.  And  no  friend  of  hers 
was  supposed  to  know  her  present  whereabouts. 

But,  after  much  thinking,  he  hit  upon  an  idea, 
which  he  at  once  proceeded  to  work  out.  He  ad- 
dressed an  envelope  in  a  feigned  hand  to  "The  Young 
Lady  Singer  in  the  Mask,  13,  Salt  Street,  Brighton." 
In  the  same  cramped  writing  he  penned  a  few  lines  on 
a  sheet  of  paper  saying: 

"This  is  from  an  invalid,  blessed  in  this  world's 
goods,  who,  being  wheeled  in  her  bath-chair  along 
the  parade,  has  heard  you  sing  favorite  songs  of  her 
childhood  in  your  sweet  voice.  The  pleasure  you 
have  given  her  has  been  better  than  medicine;  and 
she  begs  that  you  will  accept  the  enclosure  as  a  slight 
tribute  of  admiration." 

To  this  sheet  of  paper  Newcome  had  pinned  bank- 
notes for  twenty-five  pounds,  and  had  hardly  been 
able  to  wait  in  patience  until  the  letter  had  been 
delivered  at  the  house  by  the  postman. 

Winifred's  surprise  and  bewilderment  were  quite 
vivid  enough  to  satisfy  his  boyishly  eager  anticipa- 
tions; but  he  had  to  put  forth  all  his  powers  of  argu- 


196  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

ment  and  persuasion  before  she  would  entertain  the 
idea  of  using  the  money.  What  could  she  do  with  it 
else  ?  he  urged.  As  she  did  not  know  the  name  of 
the  sender,  she  could  not  possibly  return  the  present. 
Why  not,  then,  consider  the  gift  providential,  believ- 
ing that  the  thought  had  been  put  in  somebody's 
head  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  her  to  go  to  the 
mother  who  needed  her  ?  It  seemed  to  him  that  her 
course  was  clear;  every  other  road  was  blocked. 

After  her  bitter  experiences  Winifred  was  inclined 
to  be  fearful  and  easily  suspicious.  She  did  not  for 
an  instant  think  of  her  "partner"  as  the  mysterious 
benefactor,  because,  so  far  as  she  knew,  he  was  nearly 
as  poor  as  herself.  But  she  did  think  of  Lionel  Macaire, 
asking  herself  if  he  could  have  found  out  where  she 
was  hiding,  and  be  firing  another  mine  to  explode 
under  her  feet  by-and-bye. 

At  last,  however,  the  temptation  to  accept  the 
goods  given  by  the  gods  was  too  strong  for  her.  She 
imagined  her  mother  dying,  calling  in  vain  for  the 
daughter  who  was  kept  away  by  a  mere  scruple.  She 
remembered  the  debt  she  still  owed  to  Sir  Digby 
Field,  and  at  the  nursing  home;  and  she  decided  that 
it  would  be  worse  than  folly  to  let  the  money,  which 
could  do  so  much,  lie  idle.  If  evil  came  from  it  in 
the  future,  why,  the  future  must  take  care  of  itself. 

Having  once  come  to  this  resolve,  she  grew  quite 
reckless,  for  five-and-twenty  pounds  seemed  so  much 
for  her  to  own  after  those  days  when  she  had  been 
looking  with  respect  on  every  halfpenny.  She  gave 
Mrs.  Purdy  and  Clara  a  present,  and  very  shyly  begged 
Hope  Newcome  to  let  her  lend  him  a  few  sovereigns. 

This  offer  had  its  humorous  side,  since  the  money 


THE  JEWEL  IN  THE  TOAD'S  HEAD      197 

she  was  pressing  upon  him  was  in  reality  all  his;  but 
Newcome  received  it  with  a  perfectly  grave  face. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  that  he  needed 
nothing  and  would  take  nothing,  when  suddenly  he 
had  an  idea  which  struck  him  as  brilliant. 

"That's  awfully  good  of  you/*  he  said,  "and  I 
will  borrow  a  sovereign  —  I  really  don't  want  more 
—  on  one  condition,  and  one  only." 

"What  is  that  ?"  asked  Winifred. 

"Well,  you  see,  we've  been  partners,  and  nothing, 
I  hope,  can  ever  make  us  feel  like  strangers  to  each 
other  again.  And  so  I  can  take  this  money  freely 
from  you  if  you'll  promise  me  that,  in  case  you  should 
be  a  little  down  on  your  luck  at  any  time,  and  I  was 
flush,  you'd  let  me  lend  you  something  —  something 
really  worth  while  —  just  supposing,  you  know,  that  I 
could  well  afford  it." 

Such  a  contingency  seemed  at  present  rather  remote, 
and  so  for  the  pleasure  of  lending  him  a  pound  to-day 
Winifred  pledged  herself  to  his  condition  for  other 
days  to  come. 

That  evening  she  let  him  see  her  off  at  the  station, 
and  he  stayed  in  Brighton  for  the  night  (instead  of 
going  straight  to  town  to  begin  work  with  his  spar- 
ring partner,  in  preparation  for  the  coming  contest), 
solely  for  the  joy  of  receiving  a  letter  which  Wini- 
fred had  promised  to  write. 

Next  morning  the  letter  came.  She  had  written  it 
before  going  to  bed,  in  the  flat  which  had  once  been 
such  a  dear  home  to  her  and  her  little  mother.  Mrs. 
Gray's  relapse  had  been  caused  by  some  bad  news 
about  her  son,  so  the  girl  wrote,  though  she  did  not 
tell  what  the  nature  of  the  news  had  been;  but  the 


198  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

nurses  hoped  for  the  best,  and  Winifred  thought  that 
the  sight  of  her  might  do  her  mother  good.  She 
was  not  alone  at  the  flat,  she  went  on  to  say;  her 
brother  Dick  was  with  her,  having  come  to  town 
only  a  few  days  before.  And,  thanks  to  Winifred's 
new  riches,  they  should  get  on  comfortably  for  a 
while  till  "something  turned  up."  Of  course,  as 
they  had  had  such  sharp  reverses  of  fortune,  the  flat 
was  now  much  too  expensive  for  them;  but  they  had 
it  on  their  hands,  till  it  could  be  sub-let,  and  so  they 
might  better  live  in  it  than  go  elsewhere.  If  Mr. 
Newcome  came  to  town  while  Dick  was  with  her, 
she  hoped  that  he  would  call  upon  his  late  "partner" 
and  her  brother. 

Hope  Newcome  thought  this  the  most  delightful 
letter  that  had  ever  been  written  or  received;  and  it 
went  into  the  pocket  nearest  his  heart,  where  lay  cer- 
tain documents  of  a  very  different  character  —  docu- 
ments which  had  brought  him  to  England. 

Then  he  wrote  to  Winifred,  telling  her  that  sud- 
denly arranged  business  was  calling  him  to  London, 
and  that  he  should  be  only  too  happy  to  call  upon 
her  if  she  would  let  him.  When  this  letter  had  been 
sent  off  he  went  to  see  Macaire  at  the  Metropole,  to 
say  that  he  was  ready  for  work;  but  Macaire  was 
engaged,  and  he  was  kept  waiting. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  millionaire  was  at  that 
moment  closeted  with  a  detective  in  his  employ.  The 
man  had  received  a  telegram  from  a  colleague  in 
London,  with  the  information  that  Miss  Gray  had 
returned  to  her  flat  near  Bryanston  Square,  where 
she  had  joined  her  brother  quite  openly,  and  had 
gone  with  him  to  the  nursing  home  in  Welbeck 


THE  JEWEL  IN  THE  TOAD'S  HEAD      199 

Street,  where  the  mother  lay  ill,  to  inquire  after 
the  invalid's  health. 

Her  hiding  place,  meanwhile,  had  not  yet  trans- 
pired, however,  and  Macaire  had  some  sarcastic  com- 
ments to  make  upon  his  employee's  methods. 

When  he  had  sent  the  detective  away  he  saw  New- 
come,  and  told  him  that  he  himself  was  ready  to  return 
to  town.  He  had  run  down  to  Brighton  for  a  few 
days  by  the  sea,  as  he  didn't  care  to  go  abroad  this 
year,  but,  after  all,  London  was  best;  and  they  might 
make  the  journey  together,  if  Newcome  liked. 

All  this  seemed  very  good-natured  and  unaffected, 
for  Newcome's  clothing,  although  not  as  conspicuous 
as  that  in  which  he  had  called  upon  George  Ander- 
son at  the  Duke  of  Clarence's,  was  shabby  at  best; 
and  handsome  and  well  set  up  as  the  wearer  was, 
many  men  in  Macaire's  position  might  not  have 
cared  for  him  for  a  traveling  companion. 

Macaire  had  his  own  special  car,  made  after  an 
American  model,  and  it  was  to  accompany  him  in  this 
gorgeous  conveyance  that  Newcome  found  himself 
invited.  The  millionaire  was  taciturn  at  first,  appear- 
ing to  be  absorbed  in  singularly  engrossing  thoughts 
the  grewsome,  glazed  skin  on  his  forehead  twitching 
nervously  from  time  to  time;  but  after  a  while  his 
mood  completely  changed.  He  talked  rapidly,  and 
even  picturesquely,  about  sporting  matters  in  gen- 
eral, and  boxing  in  particular,  seeming  vastly  keen 
upon  the  subject.  He  described  Joe  Nash,  otherwise 
Joey  the  Kid,  advising  and  warning  Newcome  of  the 
best  way  to  "tackle"  so  wary  and  formidable  a  cus- 
tomer; and  then  drifted  into  talk  of  the  Stock  Exchange, 
growing  almost  confidential  at  last,  narrating  some  of 


200  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

his  own  early  successes,  and  illustrating  the  maxim 
that  "money  makes  money/'  He  had  had  but  a 
moderate  fortune  to  start  with,  he  said,  scarcely 
£30,000;  but  he  had  been  ambitious,  and  he  had 
had  ideas.  At  the  age  of  twenty-eight  or  thirty  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  exactly  as  to  what  he  wanted 
in  life,  and  determined  to  get  it.  He  had  speculated, 
and  been  phenomenally  lucky,  and  the  result  had 
been  —  well,  he  would  not  say  how  much,  but  all  the 
money  he  was  ever  likely  to  want.  Then  he  deigned 
to  describe  one  or  two  of  his  first  great  coups,  and 
Newcome  listened  with  attention. 

Only  a  short  rime  ago  he  had  not  been  conscious 
of  high  worldly  ambitions.  He  had  always  been 
poor,  had  even  known  great  hardships  since  reach- 
ing manhood,  and  he  had  expected  to  remain  poor. 
If  he  could  accomplish  the  one  task  to  which  a 
beloved  woman  had  solemnly  dedicated  his  life  he 
had  thought  that  he  would  be  satisfied.  Afterward 
it  would  not  matter  so  much  what  happened  to 
him,  though  no  doubt  he  would  rub  on  somehow 
well  enough  when  he  went  back  to  the  Southern 
states,  where  he  was  known,  and  could  get  some- 
thing decent  to  do. 

But  now,  all  was  suddenly  changed.  He  was  in 
love,  and  he  wanted  Winifred  Gray  more  than  he  had 
dreamed  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  want  anything. 
Ambition  waked  with  the  prospect  of  the  strange 
adventure  in  which  he  was  engaging.  Talk  of  money 
interested  him.  His  heart  quickened  at  the  story 
told  by  Macaire,  and  though  his  face  betrayed  noth- 
ing, seeming  even  indifferent  as  he  listened,  without 
any  particular  expression,  to  the  tale  of  how  a  man, 


THE  JEWEL  IN  THE  TOAD'S  HEAD     201 

beginning  at  an  age  not  much  greater  than  his  own, 
had  grasped  fortune,  he  missed  not  one  detail  of  a 
single  anecdote.  Macaire,  though  he  fancied  himself 
a  student  of  character,  would  have  been  surprised 
could  he  have  seen  into  Hope  Newcome's  mind. 

When  the  millionaire  was  tired  of  telling  of  his 
successes  and  how  they  had  been  made,  he  turned  the 
conversation  to  the  'duties  of  rich  men.  He  did  not 
pose  as  a  dispenser  of  charity,  he  remarked.  That 
sort  of  thing  he  left  to  the  fellows  who  wanted  to 
get  on  the  soft  side  of  princesses  and  work  for  titles. 
As  for  him,  he  thought  knighthoods  positively  vul- 
gar; they  smelt  of  soap,  beer,  or  groceries,  and  bar- 
onetcies weren't  much  better,  unless  a  chap  was  born 
to  them. 

"I  shouldn't  sleep  of  nights  if  I  didn't  feel  I  was 
doing  some  good  in  the  world,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
the  well-executed  air  of  frankness  which  those  who 
knew  him  intimately  recognized  at  once  as  leading  up 
to  something  —  something  for  which  they  had  better 
keep  their  eyes  open.  "But  I  don't  go  in  for  chanty 
in  a  lump  —  the  kind  that's  meant  to  get  into  the 
papers;  presents  of  Christmas  turkeys  to  50,000  poor 
people,  or  endowing  hospitals,  or  giving  gold  plate  to 
cathedrals.  I  like  to  help  individuals,  not  the  regu- 
lar 'slummers,'  though  it's  well  enough  to  look  after 
them,  too,  but  people  who  have  had  hard  luck,  and 
want  just  a  'hand-up'  out  of  the  slough.  Now,  for 
one  instance  of  what  I  mean,  among  many,  there's  a 
family  called  Gray;  a  nice  little  woman,  whom  every- 
one likes  who  knows  her,  and  a  daughter  who's  on 
the  stage.  By  the  way,  she  was  to  have  played  here 
in  Brighton,  I  think,  the  other  day,  but  there  was 


202  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

a  misunderstanding  of  some  sort  —  I  don't  know 
what.  I  suppose  that's  what  put  her  and  her  mother 
in  my  mind  at  this  moment.  Anyhow,  the  family 
has  had  hard  luck  lately,  I  hear,  and  I'd  like  to  do 
something  for  them  —  through  the  brother,  perhaps  — 
if  I  could  manage  it  without  its  being  known.  I  hate 
that  sort  of  thing  to  be  talked  about.  I  hate  to  have 
people's  thanks.  Hanged  if  I  know  what  to  say  to 
them,  or  where  to  look." 

Hope  Newcome's  heart  warmed  to  the  eccentric 
and  hideous  millionaire.  He  had  accepted  his  queer 
offer  because  it  suited  him,  but  he  had  not  liked  the 
man.  Now  it  occurred  to  him  that,  like  the  toad 
which  is  supposed  to  hide  the  jewel  of  price  in  his 
ugly  head,  Lionel  Macaire  was  better  inside  than  out. 
He  was  certainly  not  snobbish;  that  was  proved  by 
his  treatment  of  a  shabby  young  stranger,  even  though 
the  stranger  served  his  purpose;  and  now  it  seemed 
that  he  had  a  good  heart. 

Newcome  had  had  experiences  in  his  twenty-six 
years  which  had  made  him  reticent,  slow  to  form 
opinions  of  people,  and  still  slower  to  utter  them. 
This  habit  of  reserve  clung  to  him  now;  he  was  not 
sure  of  Macaire,  but  he  was  inclined  to  believe  him 
genuine,  and  his  faint  suspicions  of  the  man  were  not 
increased  by  his  mention  of  the  Grays.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  pulses  leaped  at  the  sound  of  the  name,  and 
he  was  ready  to  encourage  further  confidences  on  the 
subject,  without  betraying  any  special  eagerness  in 
drawing  them  out. 

If  Macaire,  recalling  Newcome's  championship  of 
Winifred  Gray  outside  the  stage-door  of  the  Duke 
of  Clarence's,  watched  his  face  for  signs  of  emotion, 


THE  JEWEL  IN  THE  TOAD'S  HEAD     203 

he  must  have  been  disappointed.  The  young  man 
looked  civilly  interested,  just  as  he  had  looked  before. 

"You  must  remember  Miss  Gray,"  Macaire  went 
on.  "You  hauled  a  man  off  the  driver's  seat  of  her 
cab  the  night  I  saw  you.  Perhaps  you  knew  her 
before?" 

"No,"  said  Newcome,  calmly,  "I'd  never  seen 
her  till  that  night.  The  affair  you  speak  of  hap- 
pened quite  by  accident." 

"You  didn't  run  across  her  in  Brighton,  then?" 

"I  wish  I  had,"  Newcome  answered,  with  such 
apparent  frankness  that  no  one  could  have  suspected 
evasion.  "I'd  have  gone  to  see  her  act  if  she'd  been 
playing  in  Mazeppa." 

"So  would  I.  But  as  a  well-wisher  of  the  family 
-  I  can't  say  a  friend,  as  I  hardly  know  the  Grays 
personally  —  I  can't  help  thinking  it's  just  as  well  she 
didn't  —  whatever  was  the  reason  that  caused  her  to 
back  out  apparently  at  the  last  minute.  One  never 
knows  the  rights  of  these  theatrical  quarrels.  Ma- 
zeppa,  as  it  was  to  have  been  played,  judging  from 
the  posters,  wasn't  a  piece  I  should  have  cared  for  a 
daughter  or  sister  of  mine  to  appear  in." 

"No,"  said  Newcome,  calmly.  But  there  was  a 
spark  in  his  eye  at  the  thought  of  those  posters. 

"A  man  was  telling  me  a  day  or  two  ago  that  the 
family  are  in  financial  straits,"  continued  Macaire. 
"The  mother's  ill,  and  there's  a  ne'er-do-well  young 
brother  who  failed  in  Ireland  with  a  paper  he'd  taken 
shares  in."  (Macaire  had  not  needed  his  detective 
to  tell  him  this;  he  had  had  a  hand  in  that  little  trans- 
action himself,  having  been  a  power  behind  the  editor- 
ial throne  which  had  toppled.)  "I  don't  want  to 


204     >  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

appear  in  the  transaction  at  all;  but  if  you  come  out 
ahead  in  this  fight  with  the  Kid,  and  make  your  bow 
in  society  as  a  young  man  of  fashion,  you  might  be 
able  to  help  me  do  the  trick,  and  others  of  the  same  sort. 
Between  us  we  might  get  young  Gray  a  berth  that 
would  prop  up  die  family  fortunes,  eh  ?" 

"If  I  can  help,  you  may  count  on  me  for  all  I'm 
worth,"  responded  Newcome,  this  time  not  attempt- 
ing to  cool  down  the  growing  warmth  in  his  breast. 
He  liked  Lionel  Macaire;  and  now  no  warning  thrill 
bade  him  look  before  he  leaped  —  to  conclusions. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   LION'S   DEN 

LIONEL  MACAIRE  was  giving  a  dinner  to  a  few 
friends  at  his  huge  palace  of  a  house  in  Park  Lane. 
Only  a  dozen  men  were  asked,  and  there  were  no 
women,  save  those  engaged  to  sing  and  dance  strange 
new  dances,  in  diaphanous  rainbow  draperies,  while 
the  guests  sat  over  their  wine  and  cigars.  But  the 
principal  guest  was  a  royal  personage,  and  a  rumor 
had  gone  round  among  those  present  that  after  din- 
ner was  over  the  millionaire  had  a  surprise  up  his 
sleeve  for  his  friends. 

He  was  celebrated  for  his  surprises  of  one  kind 
and  another.  Sometimes  they  were  of  a  kind  to  be 
mentioned  afterward  only  in  whispers  by  those  let 
into  the  secret;  but  they  were  always  notable,  not  to 
be  forgotten.  And  perhaps  there  was  not  another 
man  in  England  who  entertained  with  such  eccentric 
magnificence  as  Lionel  Macaire.  It  was  because  of 
this  —  and  because,  too,  of  a  certain  room  in  his  town 
house  or  under  it  —  that  he  had  got  his  nickname  of 
Nero  the  Second.  And  the  room  which,  though  few 
people  had  actually  seen  it,  had  helped  to  swell  his 
peculiar  fame  was  called  the  "Lion's  Den."  Strange 
scenes  were  said  to  be  enacted  there  sometimes. 

His  dining-room  was  built  like  a  banqueting-hall 
in  an  ancient  Roman  palace.  The  floor  was  of  white 

205 


206  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

marble,  and  the  domed  ceiling  was  of  blue  and  gold 
mosaic,  the  pillars  supporting  its  arches  were  of  pink 
granite,  and  there  were  wonderful  curtains  of  Syrian- 
dyed  purple  silk,  bordered  with  scroll  patterns  in  gold. 
Against  this  purple  background  statues  of  beau- 
tiful nude  figures  stood  out  in  gleaming  white,  for 
Macaire  was  a  patron  of  the  arts,  and  his  tastes  were 
distinctly  French. 

Under  the  open-work  embroidery  and  lace  inser- 
tion of  the  table  cover  was  cloth-of-gold;  and  the 
plate  was  gold  also,  glittering  under  the  electric  lights 
that  starred  the  blue  vault  of  the  ceiling.  In  such  a 
room,  and  at  such  a  table,  the  men  in  their  modern 
evening  dress  looked  oddly  out  of  keeping;  but  none 
so  incongruous  as  the  host  himself. 

With  the  cigars  came  a  gold  cigarette  case  for  each 
guest,  with  his  own  monogram  in  diamonds;  and 
when  the  last  pretty  dancer  had  bowed  her  lightly- 
draped  figure  away  behind  one  of  the  purple  curtains, 
and  no  man  cared  for  more  wine  —  even  Lionel 
Macaire's  wine  —  the  host  suggested  to  his  most 
honored  guest  an  adjournment  to  the  "cellar"  (as 
he  called  it),  where  something  amusing  might  be 
expected. 

A  quiet  smile  went  round  the  circle  at  Nero's  way 
of  referring  to  the  "Lion's  Den."  Every  man  knew 
that  he  was  in  for  some  good  sport.  They  left  the 
dining-room,  coming  out  into  an  immense  hall,  then 
through  several  passages,  which  led  them  at  last  to  a 
fine  billiard-room.  In  one  wall  was  a  great  cup- 
board, which  held  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends;  and  at 
the  back  of  this  was  a  concealed  door  which  opened 
with  a  spring.  Its  existence  would  have  been  difficult 


THE  LION'S  DEN 


207 


for  anyone  save  an  expert  in  such  matters  to  discover 
unassisted;  and  only  two  of  the  millionaire's  most 
trusted  employees  were  in  the  secret,  though  there 
were  whispers  in  the  servants'  hall  concerning  a  mys- 
tery in  the  house.  The  architect  and  the  builder 
had  kept  their  own  counsel,  as  had  Macaire's  favored 
guests;  and  if  the  millionaire  sometimes  provided 
illegal  diversions  for  his  friends  there  was  little  dan- 
ger of  an  interruption  from  rudely  raiding  police. 

When  the  concealed  door  had  retired  into  the  wall 
as  magician  fingers  touched  the  hidden  spring,  a 
flight  of  marble  stairs  could  be  seen,  illumined  by 
electric  lights  set  on  either  side.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
steps  was  an  open  space  floored  and  walled  with 
marble.  Here  were  two  closed  doors  of  oak.  One  of 
these  Lionel  Macaire  opened,  and  his  guests,  led  by 
Royalty,  filed  into  a  curious  room. 

It  was,  as  he  had  said,  in  the  cellar,  but  it  had  no 
connection  with  the  other  cellars  under  the  huge 
house.  It  could  be  entered  by  two  doors  only;  one 
through  which  the  party  had  just  come,  and  another 
opening  into  an  adjoining  apartment. 

The  room  was  forty  feet  square  at  least,  and  as 
plain  as  the  rest  of  the  house  was  elaborate.  Round 
the  walls  were  rows  of  cushioned  seats  of  walnut 
wood,  sloping  upward  in  tiers.  They  would  have 
accommodated  a  hundred  people,  instead  of  the  dozen 
here  to-night.  These  seats  walled  in  a  conventional 
roped  "ring"  —  a  square  about  twenty  feet  in  dimen- 
sion. At  each  corner  of  this  square  was  a  big  silver 
punch  bowl,  in  lieu  of  a  basin,  a  silver  jug  filled  with 
scented  water,  and  a  great,  bloated-looking  sponge. 

At  sight  of  these  preparations  the  guests   at  once 


208  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

knew  what  sort  of  entertainment  was  in  store  for 
them.  Even  those  who  were  familiar  with  the  Lion's 
Den  had  been  uncertain  till  this  moment,  for  the  only 
permanent  furnishings  in  the  place  consisted  of  the 
rows  of  seats  along  the  wall.  Even-thing  else  could 
be  changed  according  to  necessity. 

Close  to  the  ring  were  two  chairs,  and  as  Macaire 
and  his  friends  entered  two  men  rose  from  these, 
bowing  slightly.  Their  faces  were  known  to  several 
of  the  guests.  One  was  a  well-known  referee,  the 
other  a  man  appointed  to  act  as  time-keeper  in 
the  anticipated  sport.  The  former  had  just  come  in 
from  the  nsxt  room,  where  the  principals  in  the  scene 
about  to  be  enacted  had  stripped  for  weighing,  and 
might  soon  be  expected  to  appear. 

When  one  of  the  front  rows  of  seats  had  been  sparsely 
occupied,  all  eyes  turned  toward  the  closed  door  of 
that  next  room. 

Presently  it  opened,  and  three  men  came  slouching 
in.  One  of  was  middle  age,  or  near  it,  with  closely 
cropped  carrot-red  hair,  thick  and  bristly,  a  straight 
line  of  auburn  eyebrow  meeting  across  a  pugnacious 
nose;  fierce,  deep-set  little  eyes  like  those  of  an  angry 
pig;  a  protruding  chin  that  locked  the  lips  above  it 
tightly  together  when  they  were  shut;  and  the  chest 
and  arms  of  a  giant.  He  wore  loose  white  drawers, 
canvas  shoes  that  made  no  noise  when  he  moved;  and 
as  he  came  forward  he  grinned  at  the  audience,  sug- 
gestively clinching  his  hammer-like  fists  and  swelling 
out  his  biceps  so  that  the  muscles  rose  like  springs  of 
iron  under  the  dark,  hairy  skin. 

This  was  Joey  the  Kid,  and  the  two  with  him 
would  see  him  through  the  fight. 


THE  LION'S  DEN  209 

The  trio  took  their  places  at  one  corner  of  the  ring 
and  a  moment  later  another  three  came  in  at  the 
door  left  open. 

A  tall,  slim  young  fellow,  dressed  as  the  Kid  was 
dressed,  entered  with  his  second  and  a  trusted  servant 
of  Macaire's,  who  had  performed  many  a  queer  office 
in  this  room.  The  newcomer  looked,  compared  with 
Joey  the  Kid,  like  Antinous  beside  Hercules,  or  David 
with  Goliath.  Stripped  to  the  waist,  his  face  and 
throat  bronze,  his  body  marble,  he  seemed  hardly 
more  than  a  youth;  but  the  eyes  eagerly  criticizing 
his  form  could  find  no  fault  with  it.  A  Greek  sculptor 
of  old,  in  search  of  a  model  for  a  young  athlete,  would 
have  seen  in  him  perfection.  Yet,  beautiful  as  his 
body  was  to  the  eye,  it  appeared  a  monstrous  injustice 
to  match  his  youthful  strength  against  the  brawny 
bulk  of  the  big  professional  prize-fighter. 

Macaire  himself  made  the  necessary  announce- 
ment. He  told  his  guests  that  the  match  was  to  be 
under  list.  iolb.,  and  was  between  Joe  Nash,  whom 
they  knew  as  Joey  the  Kid,  and  an  amateur,  who,  having 
no  name  in  English  sporting  circles,  claimed  the  right 
to  remain  anonymous  until  after  the  fight.  He  (Mac- 
aire) vouched  for  him,  and  guaranteed  that  his  record 
was  no  more  than  it  professed  to  be.  Nash  had  just 
now  been  weighed  at  eleven  stone  nine  in  the  weighing- 
chair  in  the  next  room,  his  opponent  touching  ten  stone 
eight.  The  conditions  of  the  fight  were  the  best  of 
twenty  three-minute  rounds  with  two-ounce  gloves.  If 
it  ran  to  the  full  length  it  would  be  decided  by  points. 

Having  given  this  information,  he  put  in  a  flatter- 
ing word  for  the  referee,  who  looked  pleased,  and  the 
prologue  to  the  play  was  over;  the  act  about  to  begin. 


2io  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

The  slim  young  man  and  the  hairy  giant  came 
forth  from  their  respective  corners  and  grasped  each 
other's  hands,  the  former's  second  (who  had  been  his 
sparring  partner)  eyeing  the  pair  furtively,  his  face 
eager. 

By  this  time  each  man  in  the  audience  had  iis 
favorite.  Note-books  were  out,  and  bets  had  been 
recorded.  Few  believed  that  the  unknown  amateur 
had  a  chance  against  the  Kid,  and  Hope  Newcome 
felt  adverse  opinion  hanging  heavy  in  the  air,  oppres- 
sing his  chest. 

He  was  half  ashamed  of  himself  for  what  he  was 
about  to  do,  yet  nothing  on  earth  would  now  have 
induced  him  to  draw  back.  It  was  all  for  Winifred. 
Already  he  had  been  able  to  help  her.  If  he  could 
win  this  fight,  and,  winning  it,  step  into  the  place 
which  Lionel  Macaire  had  promised  him,  he  would 
tell  Winifred  the  truth  about  the  mission  which  had 
brought  him  to  England,  and  ask  her  if,  in  spite  of 
all  it  entailed  upon  him,  she  would  promise  to  be  his 
wife.  He  dared  not  think  that  she  loved  him,  but 
she  had  been  heavenly  sweet,  and  it  might  be  that 
she  had  learned  to  care  just  a  little  during  the  days 
that  they  had  been  "partners."  With  money  he 
could  at  least  try  his  luck.  For,  if  he  got  it,  it  would 
be  his  money,  honestly  though  strangely  earned.  He 
was  going  to  do  all  he  knew  to  earn  it  now. 

Newcome  and  Joey  the  Kid  had  never  seen  each 
other  until  they  had  walked  out,  half  stripped,  from 
the  partitioned  spaces  which  they  had  used  as  dress- 
ing closets  in  the  next  room. 

He  had  heard  all  that  could  be  heard  of  the  big 
man's  record  from  his  own  sparring  partner,  and 


THE  LION'S  DEN  211 

that  all  was  not  encouraging  to  him.  He  had  expected 
to  see  a  giant,  but  the  Kid  had  proven  even  more 
formidable  to  look  at  than  Newcome's  fancy  had 
painted  him;  and  the  younger  man,  having  so  much  to 
gain  or  lose,  had  experienced  a  qualm  of  misgivings 
as  his  eyes  and  the  little  pig-eyes  of  the  noted  prize- 
fighter had  met. 

Now,  however,  with  the  touch  of  the  other's  hand, 
all  nervousness  went.  Never  in  his  life  had  Hope 
Newcome  felt  more  cool,  more  confident  in  himself. 
Realizing  fully  the  almost  desperate  task  to  which 
he  had  pledged  himself,  he  trusted  that  if  he  could 
not  win  the  fight,  at  least  his  own  splendid  condition 
would  make  him  no  despicable  foe  for  the  hero  of 
the  ring  against  whom  he  was  pitted.  His  muscles 
were  like  elastic  and  steel,  his  nervous  energy  thrilled 
in  every  fibre  of  his  being.  He  had  carefully  trained 
for  this  fight,  and  his  shining  skin,  the  clear  whites 
of  his  eyes,  showed  him  to  be  in  the  height  of  physi- 
cal condition.  As  he  moved  his  arms  the  muscles 
rippled  under  the  skin  or  shot  out  into  smooth  swell- 
ing contours,  hard  as  ivory,  as  he  clenched  his  fists 
and  fell  easily  and  lightly  into  fighting  position. 

Joey  the  Kid  had  the  mottled  skin,  the  bagginess 
under  the  eyes  which  tell  of  a  man  who  drinks  hard 
and  lives  hard;  and,  looking  at  the  brutal  face  and 
little  sullen  eyes,  Newcome  told  himself  that  his  only 
change  of  success  lay  in  making  the  fight,  on  his  side, 
one  of  strategy,  in  avoiding  as  far  as  possible  the  smash- 
ing blows  of  those  blacksmith  arms,  toughened  by 
many  an  encounter  in  the  ring. 

The  first  round  was  mere  experimenting.  Each 
man  was  studying  the  other.  Joey  was  clearly  rather 


212  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

disdainfully  wondering  why  Macaire  had  pitted  him 
against  this  slim  youth,  whom  he  thought,  in  the 
pride  of  the  bully,  that  he  could  "fight  with  one  hand." 
Yet  he  did  not  want  to  be  led  into  a  trap.  There 
might  be  more  science  in  the  youngster  than  he  knew 
of.  So  he  stood  at  first  mainly  on  the  defensive,  let- 
ting Xev.-corr.e  begin  the  attack:  then  suddenly  made 
one  of  the  rushes  that  had  often  brought  disaster  to 
his  antagonists.  The  young  man  saw  his  danger; 
dodged  Kke  lightning,  ducking  quickly  under  the 
other's  arm,  breaking  to  the  left,  breaking  to  the  right; 
until,  just  as  time  was  called,  he  got  in  a  smacking 
blow  on  the  Kid's  low  forehead,  which  made  him 
shake  his  head  like  an  angry  bull.  It  was  a  case  of 
honors  divided,  but  the  dashing  round  of  three  min- 
utes was  enough  to  prove. to  Newcome  that  he  must 
call  on  all  his  science,  all  his  strength,  if  he  were  to 
even  hold  his  own  with  this  formidable  antagonist. 

The  next  few  rounds  were  keenly,  warily  fought. 
There  was  a  quick  pattering  of  feet  on  the  sawdust, 
an  occasional  vicious  grunt  from  the  Kid,  as  he  struck 
a  heavier  blow  than  usual,  the  sullen  thud  of  the 
gloves. 

So  far  Newcome  had  been  successful  in  the  game 
of  strategy  he  had  set  himself  to  play.  He  began  to 
think  that  his  task  might  be  easier  than  he  had  sup- 
posed it.  He  had  broken  with  his  guard,  or  avoided 
by  his  quickness  the  most  dangerous  blows  that  had 
been  aimed  at  him,  and  he  had  got  home  several 
slapping  blows  on  Joey's  face.  For  an  instant  he 
lost  his  head,  and,  enticed  by  his  opponent's  apparent 
listlessness,  he  rushed  in  recklessly. 

Next  moment  he  repented,  for  he  received  a  ter- 


THE  LION'S  DEN  213 

rific  upper  cut  that  jarred  his  spine,  and  sent  him 
reeling  across  the  ring.  Joey  was  after  him  in  a 
flash  trying  to  pin  him  in  a  corner  and  settle  him; 
but  Newcome  had  still  strength  to  dodge  this  way 
and  that,  escaping  with  another  sounding  blow  on  the 
ribs.  It  was  almost  a  disaster,  and  when  time  was 
called  he  could  barely  stagger  to  his  stool,  gasping 
like  a  newly  landed  fish. 

The  flood  of  cold  pungently-scented  water  squeezed 
over  his  head  from  the  great  sponge  brought  his  fac- 
ulties more  under  control.  He  took  a  sip  of  brandy; 
his  legs  lost  their  numbness.  As  he  rose  for  the  next 
round,  game  still,  though  tottering  a  little,  there  was 
a  murmur  of  encouragement  from  the  spectators, 
hushed  to  breathlessness  as  Joey  rushed  joyously  in  to 
finish  his  victim. 

But  Newcome  was  not  to  be  easily  caught  again. 
He  dodged  and  ducked,  dexterously  avoiding  the 
dangerous  corners  into  which  his  antagonist  would 
have  driven  him,  and  came  scathless,  but  giddy,  through 
the  round.  Another  minute's  rest,  another  spong- 
ing of  the  head  and  sip  of  brandy,  and  he  was  able 
to  face  his  man  again.  But  he  was  weak  from  the 
tremendous  battering  he  had  received,  and  the  prize- 
fighter seemed  determined  to  finish  the  fight  there  and 
then.  The  pace  was  getting  too  hot;  the  Kid's  breath 
came  and  went  in  hissing  gasps.  He  wanted  to 
knock  out  his  man  before  the  latter's  youth,  better  con- 
dition, and  extreme  quickness  could  turn  the  scale 
against  his  own  greater  strength.  Grinning  viciously, 
he  rushed  on  his  haggard  opponent,  and  Newcome 
needed  all  his  agility  to  save  himself  from  the  mad 
fury  of  the  attack.  Just  at  the  end  of  the  round 


214  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

die  prize-fighter  landed  a  straight  right-hander  on 
Newcome's  throat,  and  the  young  man,  lifted  from 
his  feet  and  buried  across  die  ring,  seemed  to  the 
excited  spectators  to  have  received  the  knock-out 
blow  which  they  all  had  feared  must  come  sooner 
or  later. 

Actually  the  impact  of  the  blow  was  less  severe 
than  it  seemed,  and  Newcome,  while  appearing  to 
fall  like  a  log,  had  realty  practised  something  like  a 
stage  fall.  He  let  it  seem  that  he  was  badly  hurt, 
allowed  his  seconds  to  support  him  to  his  chair,  and 
lay  back  panting,  with  his  eyes  dosed.  No  one  who 
looked  at  him  believed  that  he  could  go  through 
another  round;  Macaire,  sulkily  disappointed,  and 
Macaire's  guests  considered  the  fight  practically  over. 

Newcome  was  thinking  to  himself  much  the  same. 
He  knew  that  he  was  over-matched  in  strength,  in 
mere  brute  hitting  power,  if  not  in  skill  and  science; 
and  he  bitterly  realized  that  at  any  instant  the  end 
might  come.  One  device  only  was  left  to  him,  and 

^>  J 

that  he  resolved  to  put  into  practice  at  once.  When 
time  was  called  he  rose  languidly,  and  staggered 
toward  the  center  of  the  ring.  A  pang  of  pity  for 
a  victim  pluckily  determined  to  fight  it  out  to  the  last 
against  desperate  odds  softened  die  eyes  of  the  spec- 
tators. The  Kid's  attack  seemed  irresistible.  Exasper- 
ated at  the  long  resistance,  furious  that  so  many 
rounds  had  been  fought  without  victory  declaring  her- 
self in  his  favor,  he  rushed  at  his  young  antagonist 
like  an  angry  bulL  But  in  die  passion  of  the  assault 
die  prize-fighter,  counting  now  on  certain  triumph, 
relaxed  his  caution.  It  was  the  chance  for  which 
Newcome  had  watched  and  waited  and  schemed. 


THE  LION'S  DEN  215 

Calling  on  his  final  reserve  of  energy,  summoning 
his  last  ounce  of  strength,  he  shot  out  a  clean,  tre- 
mendous blow,  the  full  weight  of  the  body  behind  it 
and  it  caught  the  giant  full  on  the  point  of  his  square, 
resolute  jaw.  The  Kid's  hands  whirled  up  help- 
lessly, he  fell  crashing  down,  full  on  his  back,  his 
limbs  twitching,  a  low  moaning  coming  from  his 
parted  lips.  Newcome  stood  over  him,  wondering  at 
what  he  had  done,  fearing  that  the  giant  would  rise 
again  to  renew  the  fight,  but  the  time-keeper's  monot- 
onous voice  crying  the  seconds  from  one  to  ten,  while 
still  the  prize-fighter  lay  helpless  and  unconscious, 
told  his  benumbed  brain  that  the  victory  was  his  — 
a  victory  jealously  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  defeat. 

He  hardly  saw  the  limp  body  of  his  unconscious 
opponent  carried  away  to  the  next  room.  Voices 
drummed  in  his  ears  like  the  buzzing  of  bees.  Half- 
dazed  still,  he  realized  that  Macaire  was  shaking  his 
hand,  that  others  were  crowding  near. 

"After  such  a  triumph  you  can  be  anonymous  no 
longer,"  the  millionaire  was  saying.  "Gentlemen,  I 
want  to  introduce  you  to  my  friend  Baron  von  Zell- 
heim,  a  name  you  must  all  have  heard,  a  man  you 
will  all  be  glad  to  meet/' 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK 

THE  oaa  news  which  had  prostrated  Mrs.  Gray 
just  as  she  had  been  pronounced  out  of  danger  was 
from  Dick.  In  a  reckless  moment  he  had  staked  most 
of  the  money  sent  by  Winifred  to  buy  himself  out  of 
the  Army  on  a  horse  concerning  which  he  had  had  a 
"sure  rip."  The  horse  had  disappointed  expecta- 
tions —  Dick  swore  he  had  been  drugged  —  the  money 
was  lost;  and  Dick  still  a  wearer  of  His  Majesty's  liv- 
ery instead  of  being  the  happy  possessor  of  ten  rimes 
the  original  sum  sent  him,  as  he  had  hoped. 

This  disaster  had  been  kept  from  Winifred,  "lest 
it  should  worry  her";  and  because  the  poor  little 
invalid  had  had  to  worry  all  alone  she  had  slipped 
back  almost  to  death's  door.  Had  she  dreamed  of 
her  daughter's  new  trouble  in  Brighton  she  would 
probably  have  died  outright;  but  she  had  not  been  well 
enough  even  to  read  the  cautious  letter  sent  by  the 
girl  from  Mrs.  Purdy's.  And  meanwhile  things  had 
mended  with  Dick,  though  exactly  why  a  certain  piece 
of  luck  had  come  his  way  remained  a  mystery. 

A  lieutenant  in  his  regiment,  indifferent,  even  over- 
bearing before,  had  suddenly  appeared  to  take  a 
fancy  to  him  and  on  learning  through  questions 
that  Dick  was  die  brother  of  Miss  Gray,  the  actress, 
invited  further  confidences,  and  finally  lent  the 

216 


HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK  217 

young  private  the  money  necessary  to  procure  his 
freedom. 

All  this  had  happened  before  Winifred  ventured 
out  of  her  hiding-place  to  boldly  return  home,  where 
she  found  Dick  already  established,  and  very  little 
ashamed  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  folly,  his  misfortune 
and  his  rescue. 

The  end  of  the  story  alarmed  Winifred.  Not  only 
was  her  pride  hurt  that  the  brother  for  whom  she 
had  worked  so  hard  in  vain  should  be  under  obliga- 
tions to  a  stranger  impossible  at  present  to  repay,  but 
she  was  pricked  with  fear  lest  Macaire's  hand  had 
been  in  the  business.  For  the  officer  who  had  come 
to  Dick's  aid  was  said  not  to  be  rich;  indeed,  Dick  in- 
formed her  as  part  of  the  mystery  that  the  young  man 
was  supposed  to  be  deeply  in  debt. 

The  girl  could  do  nothing,  however,  toward  repay- 
ing the  loan.  The  money  she  had  left  from  her  anony- 
mous present  must  be  used  for  her  mother  and 
for  current  expenses,  which  were  increased  by  Dick's 
presence  at  home.  Again  the  weary  struggle  to  find 
an  engagement  began;  but,  though  the  law-suit  she 
feared  was  not  begun,  the  affair  in  Brighton,  from 
the  enemy's  point  of  view,  was  known  far  and  wide 
in  theatrical  circles,  and  the  few  managers  wishing  to 
engage  actresses  did  not  want  Miss  Winifred  Gray. 

She  had  been  exactly  a  fortnight  in  London  when 
a  new  blow  fell.  The  officer  who  had  lent  Dick  the 
money  for  his  discharge  wrote  that  he  must  ask  for 
immediate  repayment,  as  he  found  himself  in  unex- 
pected difficulties.  Previously  he  had  assured  the 
young  fellow  that  he  might  pay  when  he  liked,  or  not 
at  all  —  it  mattered  nothing  to  him. 


218  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Winifred,  to  whom  Dick  instantly  came  with  the 
letter,  was  at  her  wits'  end.  There  was  no  one  whose 
advice  or  help  she  could  ask.  Her  mother  must  not 
be  told,  and  Dick  had  shown  himself  weaker  than  a 
child  in  business  affairs.  She  thought  of  Hope  New- 
come,  as  she  had  thought  many  times  during  the  past 
two  weeks,  with  a  grieved  pang  because,  though  in 
London,  he  had  never  called  or  even  written.  She 
did  not  want  material  help  from  him,  but  poor,  and 
shabby,  and  down  on  his  luck  as  he  was,  her  feeling 
for  him  was  such  as  a  damsel  of  old  might  have  cher- 
ished for  a  knight,  who  had  ridden  up  and  rescued  her 
from  murderous  thieves  in  the  forest.  He  had  none 
of  this  world's  goods;  but  of  courage,  and  strength 
and  chivalry  he  had  more  than  any  man  she  had  ever 
known;  and  just  to  talk  with  him  of  her  troubles  as 
they  had  talked  when  they  were  "partners,"  under 
their  masks,  would  have  been  like  having  a  strong 
staff  to  lean  upon  in  her  weariness. 

It  was  late  one  afternoon  that  she  sat  thinking 
of  Hope  Newcome,  wondering  why  he  kept  away, 
and  whether  he  had  already  forgotten.  She  had 
Dick's  letter  from  the  officer  in  her  hand,  and  had 
been  trying  to  concoct  an  answer,  until  the  image  of 
Hope  Newcome  had  beckoned  her  thoughts  to  a  dis- 
tance. Darkness  was  falling,  but  gas  cost  money, 
which  Winifred  had  not  to  spend.  When  Dick  came 
in  they  would  have  a  lamp;  but  Dick  had  gone  down 
to  Fleet  Street  directly  after  their  luncheon  of  bread 
and  milk,  hoping  to  place  a  story  he  had  written, 
and  had  not  yet  come  home. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  the  door-bell  broke  into  her 
thoughts.  It  did  not  ring  very  often  now,  for  the 


HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK  219 

girl  who  had  been  billed  so  brazenly  for  Mazeppa 
was  in  disgrace  with  her  friends.  Since  she  had 
returned  from  Brighton  no  one  had  called  to  see  her. 

Winifred's  nerves  were  in  such  a  state  that  when 
anything  unexpected  happened  she  was  frightened, 
and  her  heart  beat  fast.  Suppose  a  man  with  a  "sum- 
mons" against  her  for  breach  of  contract  had  come 
at  last  ?  Suppose  Dick  had  got  himself  into  some 
new  dilemma,  and  she  were  to  hear  of  it  now  ?  She 
had  been  with  her  mother  in  Welbeck  Street  that 
morning,  staying  as  long  as  the  nurse  allowed;  but 
supposing  word  had  come  of  another  relapse  ? 

There  was  no  servant  in  the  little  flat  in  these  days. 
Winifred  did  all  the  work  herself;  and  it  was  part 
of  her  work  to  answer  the  bell.  She  went  to  the 
door  now,  in  the  half-darkness,  quivering  and  throbbing 
with  vague  terrors  of  what  she  might  have  to  see  or  hear. 

But  there  on  the  threshold  stood  Hope  Newcome, 
and  her  relief  was  so  intense  that  she  gave  a  little  cry 
of  joy,  and  held  out  both  her  hands. 

"Oh,  partner,  it's  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  so 
glad!" 

He  caught  her  hands  and  gripped  them  tightly  - 
so  tightly  that  it  hurt;  but  Winifred  was  in  a  mood 
to  be  glad  of  such  a  hurt  as  this. 

"You've  been  a  long  time  in  remembering  your 
promise,"  she  said,  suddenly  feeling  confused,  and 
thankful  for  the  darkness  that  hid  her  eyes  and  cheeks. 
"But  come  in.  I'm  sorry  my  brother's  out.  Per- 
haps, though,  he  will  be  here  presently." 

With  such  conventional  words  she  led  him  into 
the  drawing-room  —  a  very  different  room  from  that 
in  which  they  had  had  their  talks  at  Mrs.  Purdy's, 


THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

yet  only  a  mockery  in  its  dainty  grace  to  the  emptiness 
of  the  family  purse. 

"Did  you  really  believe  I  hadn't  remembered?'' 
Newcome  asked,  in  an  odd,  tense  voice,  as  if  he  were 
keeping  back  an  army  of  words  eager  to  press  for- 
ward. 

"What  else  could  I  believe  ?  Unless  that  yon  were 
too  busy  ?"  She  had  her  back  to  him,  and  was  busily 
lighting  a  lamp  on  the  table.  It  was  so  dark  that 
they  had  hardly  seen  each  other  yet;  still,  she  did  not 
appear  to  be  hurrying  over  her  task. 

"Busy!  As  if  being  busy  would  have  kept  me 
away  from  you,  after  you  had  said  I  might  come. 
No,  it  wasn't  that.  Mayn't  I  light  the  lamp  for  you  ?  " 
.In  a  moment  die  room  was  full  of  light.  She  must 
look  at  him  now,  and  meet  his  eyes;  which  she  turned 
to  do,  with  the  beginning  of  a  smile;  but  the  smile 
changed  to  surprise  before  it  had  reached  perfection. 

"  Why,  you  —  you  —  I  hardly  know  you.  But  how 
:..  :.-:  :  ~-.~  '  ~  -  " 


Hope  Newcome  laughed  out  boyishly.  "You  mean 
that  from  a  'busker'  I've  turned  into  a  'swell.*  Please 
don't  you  think  you  oughtn't  to  have  shown  that 
you  were  astonished.  I  should  have  been  disap- 
pointed if  you  hadn't.  Is  it  an  improvement  ?" 

It  certainly  was.  A  Bond  Street  tailor  had  done 
his  best  for  the  splendid,  youthful  figure.  What 
Newcome  had  lost  in  picturesqueness  by  this  trans- 
formation he  had  more  than  gained  in  distinction. 
But,  remembering  him  so  vividly  as  he  had  been  at 
Brighton,  it  was  certainly  a  shock  to  behold  him  in 
the  smartest  of  frock  coats,  with  a  tall,  shining  hat 
in  his  hand. 


HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK  221 

"I — hardly  know  yet,"  stammered  Winifred. 
"You're  quite  like  the  prince  in  a  fairy  story " 

"If  I'm  not  a  prince,  at  least  I  pass  as  a  baron," 
he  answered,  still  laughing.  "May  I  introduce  Baron 
von  Zellheim,  at  your  service  ?  I  don't  hold  out  this 
hat  for  silver.  Luckily,  there's  no  need.  I'm  a  sort 
of  male  Cinderella;  only  my  clock  won't  strike  the 
fatal  hour  of  midnight,  for  —  well,  I  hope  for  some 
time  to  come.  But,  dear  Miss  Gray  —  dear  'partner,' 
if  you'll  let  me  call  you  that  still  —  joking  apart,  I've 
been  waiting  until  I  knew  whether  I  was  going  to  be 
a  poor  seedy  beggar  such  as  I  was  when  I  knew  you 
first  —  or  almost  a  rich  man  before  I  would  permit 
myself  to  come  and  see  you.  The  reason  of  that  was, 
I  wanted  so  very  much  to  say  certain  things  to  you 
which  I  had  no  business  to  say  if  I  were  to  be  unfor- 
tunate, that  I  dared  not  trust  myself  near  you  till 
my  affairs  were  more  settled.  But  oh!  the  struggle 
it's  been  to  keep  away." 

Winifred  did  not  answer.  She  could  not  if  she 
would.  A  flame  seemed  to  run  through  her  veins. 
She  knew  what  were  the  things  that  he  wanted  so 
much  to  say  to  her  —  she  thought  that  she  knew.  And 
she  was  sure  —  suddenly  very,  very  sure  —  that  she 
knew  what  she  would  wish  to  say  in  return. 

They  had  been  standing,  but  the  girl  sank  down  on 
the  sofa  which  had  been  sacred  to  her  mother. 

"May  I  sit  by  you  and  tell  you  all  about  every- 
thing that  I  can  tell  ?"  he  said. 

A  look  answered  him,  and  he  took  the  vacant  place 
on  the  sofa. 

"I've  come  into  some  money,"  he  began  to  explain, 
hesitating  a  little.  "  Perhaps,  if  you  knew  how  I'd  got 


222  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

it,  you  wouldn't  approve.  It  isn't  -  -  well,  it  isn't 
quite  ideal,  certainly.  But  I  don't  think  it's  dis- 
honorable." 

"Of  course  not,  or  you  wouldn't  have  taken  the 
money,"  said  Winifred. 

"  Do  you  trust  me  for  that  —  not  knowing  ?" 

"Yes,  absolutely,  partner." 

"Thank  you,  a  thousand  times.  I  should  like  you  to 
know  the  whole  story,  but  I'm  bound  for  a  time  not 
to  tell  that  to  anybody.  Still,  there's  the  money;  it's 
mine  to  do  what  I  like  with.  If  I  keep  my  head  I 
need  never  be  poor  again,  and  I  mean  to  keep  it.  Just 
at  present  I'm  being  rather  extravagant,  but  that's 
part  of  the  plan!  I  only  knew  that  everything  was 
going  to  be  all  right  for  me  a  few  days  ago;  and  already 
I've  taken  rooms  at  Walsingham  House,  and  have 
bought  a  horse,  and  done  all  sorts  of  things  that  would 
have  seemed  as  far  out  of  reach  as  the  moon  a  few 
weeks  ago.  You  remember  I  told  you  that  I'd  come 
to  England  a  few  months  ago  on  a  mission  ?  Well, 
now  I'm  in  a  fair  way  to  accomplish  it  —  if  it's  to 
be  done  at  all." 

Winifred  listened  with  excitement  and  deep  inter- 
est; yet  there  was  a  queer  little  pain  in  her  heart. 
He  had  said  nothing  yet  of  what  she  had  guessed  that 
he  meant  to  say.  Perhaps  she  had  been  mistaken. 
Perhaps  he  had  intended  something  quite  different. 

"  Before  I  can  talk  of  what  is  nearest  my  heart,  far 
nearer  now  than  the  mission  for  which  I  was  brought 
up,"  he  went  on,  "I  must  confess  to  you  what  the 
work  is  I  came  here  to  do.  It  was  to  bring  a  mur- 
derer to  justice  —  to  revenge  the  ruin  he  wrought  in 
two  lives.  It  is  that  for  which  I  have  lived,  until 


HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK  223 

lately.  But  now  another  interest  has  pushed  it  aside 
-  perhaps  it's  a  sin  to  let  it  do  that  —  but  I  can't  help 
it.  The  new  interest  is  too  strong  for  me  —  stronger 
than  my  soul.  Has  a  man  a  right  to  love  a  woman 
and  tell  her  so  while  there  is  such  a  burden  on 
his  life?" 

"A  burden  of  revenge?"  Winifred  asked,  slowly. 
"  Must  the  man  bear  it  ?  Can  revenge  ever  be  en- 
nobled ?" 

"Yes,  a  thousand  times,  yes!"  he  cried,  almost 
fiercely.  "Even  for  love  it  couldn't  be  given  up,  for 
that  would  be  a  wrong  to  the  dead." 

"It  isn't  revenge  for  the  man's  own  wrongs,  then  ?" 

"  For  those  who  gave  him  his  life  —  his  father  and 
his  mother.  Do  you  say  that  he  must  not  tell  a  woman 
of  his  love  while  he  has  such  a  mission  to  work  out  ? 
If  you  do  say  so  I  shall  know  that  you  are  right." 

"No  —  I  don't  say  that;  I  can't  say  it,"  whispered 
Winifred. 

'Then  — you  know,  don't  you,  what  I  long  to  ask  ? 
You're  all  the  world  to  me,  and  heaven  too.  Is  it 
possible  that  you  could  learn  to  care  for  me  a  little, 
that  you  could  forgive  me  the  dark  things  I  must 
keep  in  my  mind  - 

"I  have  learned  already,"  the  girl  broke  in,  "to 
care  —  not  a  little,  but  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  learned 
when  we  were  partners.  Since  we  first  saw  each  other 
you  have  been  my  knight.  Even  at  the  very  begin- 
ning I  thought  differently  of  you  from  any  other  man." 

"It  seems  impossible,"  cried  Newcome.  "That 
you  —  such  a  girl  as  you  —  should  even  think  of  a 
shabby  beggar  - 

"You   were   a   gentleman.     What   can   a   man   be 


224  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

more  ?  Oh,  I  wish  you'd  told  me  that  —  you  liked  me 
in  Brighton." 

"What  a  brute  I  should  have  been  if  I  had!  It's 
bad  enough  now.  You  ought  to  marry  a  millionaire." 
Winifred  shuddered,  and  drew  away  a  little  from 
the  arms  that  held  her  tight.  "  Oh  —  don't  speak  to 
me  of  millionaires!" 

Newcome  was  quite  willing  not  to.  There  were 
only  two  persons  in  the  world  worth  talking  of  at  that 
moment  —  herself  and  himself  —  and  they  talked  of 
those  two  unceasingly,  until  Dick  was  heard  at  the 
door,  and  they  began  hastily  to  speak  of  the  weather, 
or  the  first  subject  that  came  into  their  heads.  Not 
that  Winifred  meant  the  wonderful  things  which  had 
just  happened  to  her  to  be  kept  a  secret  from  Dick, 
at  least  for  long,  but  her  mother  was  to  know  first; 
and  even  she  was  not  to  be  told  until  she  was  a  little 
stronger.  Any  excitement,  even  happy  excitement, 
was  forbidden  to  her  now. 

NewTcome  and  Dick  were  somehow  introduced  to 
each  other,  though  it  was  clear  that  Dick  did  not  at 
all  understand  who  Baron  von  Zellheim  was.  They 
had  not  had  many  wrords  together  when  Winifred's 
lover  turned  to  her  with  a  look  that  only  she  could 
read.  "There  was  so  much  to  talk  of  at  first,"  he 
said,  "that  I  forgot  something  important.  But  as 
it  concerns  your  brother,  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  I 
waited  till  he  came.  Now  he  can  answer  for  himself. 
Mr.  Gray,  I've  heard  from  your  sister  that  you  write. 
I  don't  know  whether  it's  in  your  line,  or  whether  you 
haven't  something  you  like  better  to  do;  but,  any- 
way, I  can  offer  you  a  secretaryship,  if  you'll  have  it, 
with  a  salary  of  seven  guineas  a  week." 


HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK  225 

Winifred  flushed  with  pleasure  and  surprise.  Here 
was  a  fairy  prince  indeed!  His  change  of  fortune 
was  still  something  of  a  mystery  to  her,  and  he  had 
left  another  mystery  between  them  as  well;  but  in 
the  bright  white  light  of  their  newly  acknowledged 
love  she  had  no  thought  to  bestow  upon  dusky  cor- 
ners. She  was  happy  for  the  first  time  in  so  long, 
that  she  could  hardly  believe  happiness  was  real,  and 
she  held  it  closely,  loving  her  lover  all  the  more  because 
he  had  thought  of  poor  Dick,  of  whom  she  had  spoken 
so  seldom  at  Brighton. 

"By  Jove,  that  is  good  of  you!'*  exclaimed  Dick, 
who  had  a  hearty  and  pleasant  manner,  which  en- 
deared him  to  strangers.  "I'll  be  only  too  thankful 
to  make  it  'in  my  line,'  and  do  the  very  best  I  can, 
for  I've  had  beastly  luck  lately,  as  maybe  Winnie  has 
told  you.  Is  it  you  who  offer  me  the  position?" 

"No,"  said  Newcome,  flushing  a  little,  as  Wini- 
fred remembered  afterward.  "It's  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  richer  man  than  I  am  —  a  very  good  fellow,  not 
young.  It  would  be  a  desirable  berth  for  anyone, 
I  think;  the  hours  are  not  long,  the  work  not  too  hard, 
and  no  doubt  the  salary  would  be  increased." 

"I  suppose  you  asked  him  to  have  Dick,"  exclaimed 
Winifred. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  editor  of  an  Irish 
paper  that's  lately  stopped  who  spoke  of  him  —  so  my 
friend  said  —  recommending  him  highly."  Newcome 
explained,  still  with  a  slight  air  of  embarrassment, 
which  Winifred  in  her  excitement  did  not  consciously 
notice  at  the  time.  "Then  I  mentioned  knowing  you 
(though,  of  course,  I  gave  no  details),  and  he  asked 
if,  when  I  called,  I  would  invite  Mr.  Gray  to  meet 


226  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

him.  He's  engaged  to-night,  I'm  sony  to  say.  But 
will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  evening  at  the  Savoy 
Hotel  at  eight,  and  go  round  with  me  to  my  rooms 
afterward?" 

"Delighted!"  cried  Dick,  thankful  that  he  had  not 
pawned  his  evening  clothes,  as  he  had  been  tempted 
to  do  lately. 

"And  I  wonder  if  you  would  both  dine  with  me 
somewhere  to-night?"  went  on  Xewcome,  "just  we 
three  alone.  Do  say  yes.  Miss  Gray." 

Winifred  did  say  yes,  with  joy.  It  was  so  wonder- 
ful, so  almost  unnatural  to  feel  joy.  She  basked  in  it, 
she  revelled  in  it,  thrusting  all  the  old  troubles  aside 
as  if  they  had  ceased  to  exist.  Presently  Dick  left 
them  alone  together,  and  Newcome  ventured  to  say 
something  which  had  stuck  in  his  throat  before. 
\\  ouldn't  Winifred  let  him  lend  her  money  —  heaps 
of  money?  It  was  for  that  he  had  rejoiced  in  his 
luck.  If  she  would  not  take  it,  what  he  had  would 
be  worthless  to  him.  She  had  given  herself  to  him 
now,  and  surely  he  had  some  rights  over  her.  Besides, 
she  must  remember  their  compact.  He  had  bor- 
rowed from  her  because  she  had  promised  to  do 
the  same  from  him  when  he  should  be  in  a  position 
to  lend.  That  time  had  come  now;  he  had  thou- 
sands, and  he  would  claim  her  promise. 

Of  course  Winifred  said  no;  but  Newcome  would 
not  accept  her  refusal.  He  was  urging  his  point 
when  Dick  came  back,  and  had  succeeded  so  far  as  to 
make  the  girl  consent  to  think  it  over. 

They  dined  together  at  a  quiet  place,  and  even  the 
presence  of  a  third  person  could  not  damp  their  happi- 
ness. They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  while 


HOPE  NEWCOME'S  LUCK  227 

Dick  ate  the  first  good  dinner  which,  he  announced, 
he  had  tasted  for  an  age. 

Next  morning  came  flowers  for  Winifred.  She 
had  never  loved  flowers  so  well  before.  Some  she 
took  to  her  mother,  kissing  their  sweet  faces  before 
she  parted  with  them;  but  others  she  wore  when  Hope 
Newcome  came  to  her  again  in  the  afternoon.  She 
was  alone,  as  on  the  day  before,  and  her  lover  helped 
cut  bread  and  butter  for  tea;  and  they  called  each 
other  "partner,"  as  they  had  in  the  strange  days  at 
Brighton. 

That  night  Winifred  sat  up  to  wait  for  Dick  when 
he  should  come  home  from  his  dinner  at  the  Savoy, 
and  the  engagement  at  Newcome's  rooms  afterward. 
She  longed  to  hear  all  about  what  had  happened, 
and  what  sort  of  a  man  her  brother's  employer  had 
turned  out  to  be. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

BETWEEN    BROTHER   AND    SISTER 

HALF-PAST  eleven  came,  and  still  no  Dick.  But 
just  as  the  clock  of  St.  Mary's  Church  struck  twelve 
the  door  of  the  flat  was  flung  open,  and  Dick  entered, 
whistling  the  latest  music-hall  air.  Winifred  ran  to 
meet  him.  "Oh,  Dick,  you'll  wake  everybody  in  the 
house,"  she  said  warningly. 

"Well,"  he  echoed,  "my  appointment's  all  right. 
And  I'm  to  live  in  the  handsomest  house  in  this  old 
village." 

"  What  —  you  won't  be  at  home  ?  Oh,  mother 
will  be  disappointed.  Still,  it  can't  be  helped.  Any- 
way, you'll  be  in  London." 

"For  a  while.  And  then  I'm  going  abroad  with 
—  him.  Guess  who.  You've  heard  his  name  a  thou- 
sand times.  Think  of  one  of  the  most  important 
men  in  England.  By  Jove,  von  Zellheim  has  some 
swell  friends." 

"Is  he  a  great  politician  ?" 

"No;  financier;  sporting  man  — all  round  good  fel- 
low, I'll  bet.  And,  by  Jove,  he  may  do  something 
for  you.  Seems  he's  interested  in  theaters.  Got  so 
much  money  he  doesn't  know  where  to  put  it  all. 
But  guess,  Winnie." 

The  girl  had  grown  suddenly  pale.  "I  — can't,"  she 
faltered.  "  For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me  —  quickly." 

228 


BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER    229 

"Well,  I'm  private  secretary,  if  you  please,  to  no- 
body less  than  Mr.  Lionel  Macaire." 

With  a  cry  Winifred  sprang  to  her  feet.  "No, 
Dick  —  no!"  she  gasped.  "Say  you're  only  joking." 

"Then  I  should  tell  a  lie.  I'm  in  dead  earnest. 
What  makes  you  look  so  queer  ?" 

The  girl  stood  still,  pressing  a  hand  against  each 
temple,  her  bright  hair  pushed  back.  "Did  you  say 
that  —  Lionel  Macaire  was  Hope  Newcome's  —  Baron 
von  Zellheim's  friend  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Rather.  They're  no  end  of  chums.  Macaire 
calls  von  Zellheim  'my  dear  boy/  and  pats  him  on 
the  shoulder.  He  thanked  von  Zellheim  for  bring- 
ing us  together,  which  it  seems  had  all  been  arranged 
between  them  for  some  time  before  it  came  off.  And 
I  can  tell  you  I  have  to  thank  von  Zellheim,  too.  This 
will  be  the  making  of  me,  Win." 

"It  will  be  the  undoing  of  us  all,"  she  moaned. 
"Oh,  my  God,  to  think  that  he  should  be  false,  too!" 

Dick  stopped  in  his  walk  and  stared  at  her.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at,  Sis,"  he  said. 

She  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him,  though  her  eyes, 
dark  with  pain,  saw  nothing  save  Hope  Newcome's 
face,  which  rose  before  them  as  if  to  mock  her  with 
its  sham  nobility,  its  sham  truth,  its  sham  love.  But 
it  was  not  for  Dick  to  know  the  bitter  anguish,  the 
shame  that  made  her  writhe. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  answered  him  dully,  almost 
sullenly.  "You  can't  possibly  be  Mr.  Macaire's 
secretary,  Dick — that's  all." 

"Can't?"  he  repeated.  "My  dear  girl,  you  must 
be  mad.  The  thing's  settled.  I  go  to  work  early 
to-morrow  morning.  Some  time  this  winter  he  and  I 


230  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

are  off  to  the  Riviera  and  Monte  Carlo  together; 
think  of  that!" 

"I  can't  think  of  it.  It  won't  bear  thinking  of. 
For  heaven's  sake,  sit  down  and  write  a  letter  saying 
that  —  that  you  accepted  the  offer  under  a  misappre- 
hension —  anything  —  only  make  it  dignified  and  firm. 
I  tell  you,  Dick,  the  man's  impossible." 

"What  nonsense!"  Dick  ejaculated,  crossly.  "He's 
a  splendid  fellow.  I  always  fancied  from  what  I'd 
heard  he  was  a  bit  of  a  bounder,  in  spite  of  his  money; 
but  he  isn't  at  all,  and  even  if  he  were  I'm  not  too 
proud " 

"You  will  be  too  proud  when  you  know  that  he 
has  insulted  your  sister.  Oh,  Dick,  listen  to  me! 
The  worst  trouble  I  have  ever  known  has  come  from 
this  man.  He  has  persecuted  me.  You  weren't  told 
because,  though  you're  older  than  I  am,  you're  very 
young  in  many  ways,  and  it  seemed  best  not.  Even 
mother  doesn't  know  nearly  alL  Because  I  wouldn't 
listen  to  his  hateful  love-making " 

"What?"  broke  in  Dick.  "He  made  love  to 
you  ?  I  didn't  know  you'd  ever  met  him.  For 
goodness'  sake,  why  couldn't  you  take  him  ?  He's  no 
beauty,  but,  by  Jove,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  there 
was  a  girl  in  England  who  wouldn't  have  snapped 
at  the  chance  of  being  Mrs.  Lionel  Macaire." 

"I  would  not  have  taken  that  chance,"  said  Wini- 
fred. "He  is  a  horrible  man.  But  it  was  not  offered 
to  me.  Rumor  says  there  is  a  Mrs.  Lionel  Macaire 
—  a  woman  he  married  long  ago  for  her  money,  and 
perhaps  drove  mad,  for  she's  said  to  be  in  an  asylum." 

"You  mean,  then " 

"Oh,  Dick,  don't  ask  me  what  I  mean!" 


BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER    231 

Dick  began  walking  up  and  down  again,  but  his 
face  was  very  grave,  even  sulky.  He  looked  as  he 
felt,  personally  injured  by  his  sister's  explosion. 

"I'll  bet  anything  you  were  mistaken,"  he  said. 
"Girl's  are  so  morbid,  they're  always  imagining 
queer  things  —  especially  girls  on  the  stage.  They're 
always  thinking  men  want  to  insult  them.  I  don't 
believe  poor  old  Macaire  meant  anything  of  the  sort. 
He's  old  —  must  be  nearly  sixty  —  not  a  bit  that  kind. 
And  why  should  he  pick  you  out,  anyhow,  when  there 
are  such  a  lot  of  girls  in  the  world  ?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  echoed  Winifred.  "But  whether 
you  defend  him  or  not,  you  certainly  won't  put  me 
and  yourself  into  his  power  by " 

"Now  you're  talking  like  the  heroine  of  a  melo- 
drama," exclaimed  Dick,  flushed  with  vexation,  and 
looking  very  boyish,  very  handsome.  "Tell  me 
straight  out  how  he  injured  you." 

"He  was  furious  because  I  spoke  my  mind  to  him, 
if  you  must  know.  I  told  him  I  loathed  him  — 
that  he  was  horrible.  He  induced  Mr.  Anderson  to 
discharge  me  - 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  Did  Mr.  Anderson 
or  anyone  else  tell  you  so  ?" 

"No.     But  I  am  sure  - 

"Ah,  there  it  is.  Just  as  I  thought.  What's  the 
next  indictment?" 

"  He  —  I  believe  now  that  he  tried  to  kidnap  me 
by  hiring  a  man  to  bribe  the  driver  of  my  cab  one 
night,  and 

Dick  burst  into  scornful  laughter.  "That's  good 
enough  for  the  Surrey  side,  but  it  won't  do  for  West 
End  drama !"  he  sneered.  "  Next,  please." 


232  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"What  is  the  good  of  telling  you  things  if  you  won't 
believe  me.  Oh,  Dick,  I  swear  to  you  I'm  not  mis- 
taken. Lionel  Macaire  is  cruel  as  the  grave.  If  he 
ever  cared  for  me  he  hates  me  now,  and  he  will  never 
rest  until  he  has  had  revenge.  He  said  he  would 
'bring  me  to  my  knees.'  For  weeks  he  has  been 
plotting  against  me.  That  company  I  joined  in 
Brighton  —  so  pleased  because  I  was  to  have  such  a 
splendid  salary  and  a  lot  in  advance  —  was  really 
his " 

"How  did  you  know  that?     Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"No.  But  the  manager  did.  He  told  me  that 
Mr.  Macaire  was  the  backer.  And  it  was  all  got  up 
on  purpose  to  humiliate  me.  If  you  were  anyone  but 
my  brother  you  would  have  heard  the  gossip,  you 
would  have  known  about  the  wicked  posters  pretend- 
ing to  be  pictures  of  me.  It  would  have  killed  mother 
if  she  had  seen  them.  I  ran  away  because  I  would 
not  play  the  part  —  and  now  that  way  has  failed. 
Lionel  Macaire  is  trying  another.  Just  what  he 
means  I  can't  tell  yet,  but  somehow  he  expects  to 
hurt  me  through  you." 

"You  seem  to  think  yourself  a  young  person  of 
some  importance,  my  dear,"  retorted  Dick,  "that  one 
of  the  biggest  millionaires  in  the  country  should  be 
fretting  himself  sick  to  get  you  'in  his  power,'  as 
you  call  it.  If  this  is  all  a  plot  against  you,  and  I'm 
a  mere  figurehead,  why,  your  Hope  Newcome  von 
Zellheim  is  in  it  pretty  thick,  too." 

The  taunt  was  a  sword  in  Winifred's  heart,  \\ith 
a  moan,  like  a  dove  wounded  to  death,  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  sobbed.  Dick  regarded 
her  gloomily. 


BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER    233 

He  honestly  believed  that  she  was  making  a  tre- 
mendous fuss  about  nothing;  and,  being  a  young  man 
with  a  very  good  opinion  of  himself,  he  was  nettled 
that  she  should  put  him  aside  as  a  mere  dummy,  a 
catspaw  by  which  a  chestnut  was  to  be  dragged  out 
of  the  fire.  Besides,  he  had  been  half  frantic  with 
delight  in  the  thought  of  so  splendid  an  engagement, 
and  he  simply  could  not  give  up  the  radiant  prospect 
which  for  the  last  few  hours  had  dazzled  his  youth- 
ful eyes. 

He  thought  Winifred  a  pretty  girl,  and  clever  enough; 
but,  being  her  brother,  he  was  unable  to  realize  the 
fascination  she  might  possess  for  other  men,  and  he 
was  sure  that  she  flattered  herself  far  too  much  in 
fancying  that  a  man  like  Lionel  Macaire  should  be 
at  such  desperate  pains  either  to  win  or  punish  her. 

"I'll  ask  von  Zellheim  to  come  here,  and  you  can 
talk  to  him,"  he  said  when  Winifred  continued  to  cry. 

"No!"  she  ejaculated  quickly.  "He  must  not 
come  here.  I  never  wish  to  see  him  again.  I  shall 
write  to  him  myself  to-night,  and  —  tell  him  so." 

"And  the  reason,  too." 

"He  will  understand  that  well  enough,  without 
explanation.  Dick,  you  will  write  to  Mr.  Macaire, 
won't  you  ?  Even  if  you  think  I'm  mistaken,  do  this 
for  love  of  me.  Oh,  you  could  not  go  to  him  —  you 
could  not  shame  me  by  living  in  his  house,  taking  his 
money!" 

"By  Jove,  what  it  is  to  talk  business  with  girls!" 
groaned  Dick.  "They  fly  into  hysterics.  I've  given 
my  word  to  Macaire  to  begin  his  work  to-morrow. 
He's  written  to  lots  of  chaps  who  were  dying  for  it 
to  say  the  matter's  settled.  I  must  have  money 


234  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

somehow,  for  mother's  sake  and  yours,  as  well  as 
my  own  - 

"Do  you  think  I'd  touch  what  you  had  from  that 
man,  or  let  mother  touch  it?"  the  girl  flung  at  him. 

Dick  let  the  question  pass.  "I've  debts  to  pay  — 
more  than  you  know  of.  I  shall  never  get  such  another 
chance.  Macaire  hinted  that  if  I  did  well  he  might 
think  of  me  as  editor  of  one  of  the  papers  he  owns " 

"The  one  that  told  lies  about  your  sister,  per- 
haps!" cried  Winifred  desperately.  Never  had  she 
been  really  angry  with  Dick  before,  through  all  the 
trying  episodes  of  their  youth  together,  but  she  was 
trembling  and  white  with  anger  now. 

"Maybe,  if  there  were  lies,  that's  the  reason  he'll 
get  rid  of  the  present  editor,"  retorted  Dick.  "Any- 
way, my  whole  career's  at  stake,  and  I'd  be  a  fool  to 
give  it  up  for  a  girl's  morbid  prejudice.  I  don't 
believe " 

"Don't  repeat  that  again,"  she  commanded,  her 
eyes  blazing.  "I  have  told  you  the  truth.  You  do 
not  believe  me.  You  do  believe  my  worst  enemy. 
I  can  say  no  more  as  to  that.  But  I  do  say,  Dick, 
that  if  you  go  to  his  house  you  must  not  come  back 
here  —  not  while  you  are  in  his  pay.  And  you  may 
tell  him  why  your  mother  and  sister  will  not  see  you." 

"Speak  for  yourself!"  exclaimed  Dick. 

"  Mother  and  I  will  be  one  in  this.  We've  only  each 
other  left  in  the  world  now." 


Winifred  slept  not  at  all  that  night.     She  told  her- 
self that  never  before  had  she  known  what  real  unhap- 


BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER    235 

piness  was.  She  could  have  borne  to  give  up  her  lover, 
but  to  know  him  unworthy  —  to  believe  him,  to  whom 
she  had  surrendered  her  whole  confidence,  her  whole 
heart,  in  the  plot  against  her  —  perhaps  from  the 
very  first,  seemed  more  than  she  could  bear  and  live. 

Early  the  next  morning  she  heard  Dick  stirring  in 
his  room,  which  was  next  to  hers.  At  first  she  hoped 
that  he  had  risen  betimes  to  come  and  tell  her  that 
he  was  sorry  for  last  night,  that  he  had  made  up  his 
mind,  if  only  for  her  sake,  not  to  go  to  Lionel  Macaire's. 
But  she  soon  found  out  her  mistake.  Dick  was  pack- 
ing. He  did  not  even  come  to  her  door  before  he 
went,  though  he  passed  it,  dragging  the  box,  which  he 
would  leave  in  the  hall  outside,  for  the  janitor  of  the 
flats  to  carry  down. 

"If  only  he  tells  Lionel  Macaire  why  I  have  refused 
to  see  him  —  my  own  brother  —  while  he  lives  under 
his  roof!"  she  thought.  At  least  she  would  like  to 
feel  that  Macaire  had  little  upon  which  to  congratu- 
late himself. 

But  Dick  had  no  intention  of  telling  his  new  employer 
anything  of  the  kind.  If,  as  he  argued,  he  "went 
blabbing"  to  Macaire  all  Winnie's  silly  fancies,  prob- 
ably he  should  soon  find  himself  out  in  the  cold. 
Naturally,  Macaire  would  not  wish  to  keep  for  his 
secretary  a  young  man  whose  sister  imagined  that  he 
entertained  a  wild  passion  for  her,  and  plotted  for 
her  undoing.  He  had  decided  not  to  say  anything 
to  young  Baron  von  Zellheim  either,  for  what  von  Zell- 
heim  heard  Macaire  would  hear  also,  as  they  appeared 
to  be  such  intimate  friends.  Winnie  had  said  that 
she  would  not  explain;  von  Zellheim  "would  under- 
stand" why  he  was  forbidden  to  see  her,  without 


236  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

that;  and  whether  he  did  understand  or  no  was  not 
Dick's  business.  Winnie  and  von  Zellheim  could 
fight  their  quarrel  out  between  them. 

Dick  was  rather  unhappy  for  a  few  hours,  for  he 
was  fond  of  Winifred  in  his  way,  and  was  sorry  to 
have  gone  against  her,  though  he  did  not  for  a  mom- 
ent really  regret  what  he  had  done.  But  established 
in  his  new  quarters  at  Macaire's  beautiful  house,  far 
more  magnificent  than  anything  he  had  ever  seen,  his 
spirits  bounded  up  again.  Macaire  treated  him 
right  royally,  and  Dick  was  more  indignant  than  ever 
that  Winnie  should  cherish  such  unjust  suspicions 
of  so  good  a  fellow. 

He  found  that  he  was  not  Macaire's  only  private 
secretary.  There  was  another,  an  elderly  man  of  a 
retiring  disposition,  who  apparently  loved  work  for 
its  own  sake;  but  he  was  on  a  different  footing  in  the 
big  household  from  that  on  which  Dick  was  at  once 
placed.  Either  from  his  own  choice  or  because  Ma- 
caire preferred  it,  this  person  had  his  meals  served 
in  the  room  where  he  attended  to  his  correspondence 
and  he  was  seldom  seen  outside  it,  except  when  tak- 
ing instructions  from  the  millionaire;  while,  on  the 
contrary,  Dick  was  constantly  in  request.  His  daily 
task,  apparently,  was  to  do  nothing  more  arduous 
than  sending  out  or  answering  notes  of  invitation  to 
entertainments,  though  even  that  bade  fair  to  occupy 
him  for  a  couple  of  hours  each  morning. 

The  first  day  in  his  new  berth  he  lunched  with 
Macaire  and  half  a  dozen  rich  city  men,  who  had  been 
asked  to  the  house.  He  drank  a  great  deal  of  cham- 
pagne, smoked  several  cigars,  which  he  thought  fit 
for  Olympus,  and  was  excited  and  happy,  contrast- 


BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER     237 

ing  the  present  with  the  past  in  scorn  of  the  latter. 
The  man  who  sat  next  him  at  the  table  took  him 
quite  seriously,  despite  his  youth,  and  talked  so  allur- 
ingly of  the  stock  markets  that  Dick  resolved  as  soon 
as  he  could  scrape  enough  sovereigns  together  to  go 
in  for  a  little  plunge  of  his  own. 

That  afternoon  he  went  with  Macaire  to  the  park 
to  try  a  pair  of  2,ooo-guinea  horses.  Not  a  word 
was  said  about  Winifred  who  seemed  to  vanish  into 
the  background,  appearing  of  less  and  less  importance 
among  so  many  really  big  interests  in  her  brother's  eyes. 

Macaire  was  dining  out  in  the  evening,  but  a  din- 
ner was  served  for  Dick  such  as  could  have  been  pre- 
pared at  only  a  very  few  of  the  best  London  hotels; 
and  that  the  millionaire's  famous  chef,  whose  salary 
was  £1,500  a  year,  should  exert  himself  for  the  insig- 
nificant second  secretary  was  flattering. 

Dick  was  just  finishing  a  bottle  of  Nuits  St.  George, 
which  filled  his  veins  with  a  tingle  as  of  electricity, 
when  a  footman  of  whom  he  stood  somewhat  in  awe 
informed  him  that  Baron  von  Zellheim  was  anxious 
to  see  him.  "Ask  him  to  come  here  and  have  a 
coffee  and  liquor  with  me,"  commanded  the  young 
man  with  his  lordliest  air;  and  two  minutes  later 
Newcome,  still  in  morning  dress,  was  shown  into  the 
dining-room,  looking  pale,  even  haggard. 

"Nothing  at  all  for  me,  thanks,"  he  said,  impa- 
tiently brushing  Dick's  hospitality  away  with  a  ges- 
ture. "Do  you  mind  having  in  what  you  want  and 
sending  the  servants  away?" 

Dick  did  mind  the  strain  of  dismissing  such  stately 
beings,  but  he  managed  it  with  the  best  grace  he 
could,  and  he  and  his  guest  were  left  alone. 


238  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  have  come  to  you,'* 
said  Newcome,  "but  I  couldn't  resist.  If  you  think 
I  have  done  you  a  good  turn  in  introducing  you  to 
Macaire,  for  heaven's  sake  be  frank  with  me,  and 
tell  me  if  you  know  what  I  have  done  to  offend  Miss 
Gray." 

This  was  exactly  what  Dick  did  not  wish  to  do. 
He  would  have  given  a  good  deal  if  Xewcome  had 
begun  the  attack  in  a  less  straightforward  way,  but  he 
determined  to  hedge. 

"Is  she  offended?"  he  inquired.  "I  haven't  seen 
her  to-day.  I  —  er  —  left  home  before  she  was  up." 

"I  had  a  letter  from  her  this  morning  forbidding 
me  to  attempt  to  see  her  again  or  to  write,  and  offer- 
ing not  a  word  of  explanation.  Of  course,  I  could 
not  sit  still  under  that.  I  did  go  to  see  her  —  imme- 
diately. But  the  door  was  not  opened." 

"Perhaps  she  was  out,"  suggested  Dick.  "There's 
no  servant  in  the  house;  though,  of  course,  that  and 
many  things  will  be  different  now  that  I'm  making 
money." 

"She  was  at  home.  The  janitor  told  me  that  before 
I  went  upstairs.  She  must  have  been  firm  in  her 
resolve  not  to  see  me.  I  then  sent  her  a  letter  by 
messenger,  imploring  her  to  tell  me  what  I  had  done, 
to  give  me  a  chance  at  least  of  defending  myself. 
The  letter  was  returned  to  me  unopened  in  an  envel- 
ope addressed  by  her.  I  am  absolutely  at  a  loss  to 
understand  it.  The  only  thing  left  was  to  come  to 
you.  For  God's  sake,  don't  keep  anything  back  if 
you  know  what  my  offense  is." 

Dick  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  his  forehead, 
under  the  boyish  rings  of  hair,  grew  moist.  He 


BETWEEN  BROTHER  AND  SISTER    239 

could  not  tell  this  man  of  the  monstrous  treachery 
of  which  Winifred  accused  him  and  Macaire  together. 
No  man  would  stand  it.  He  (Dick)  would  only  be 
breaking  a  wasps'  nest  about  his  own  ears,  without 
doing  good  to  anybody,  as  far  as  he  could  see. 

"Winnie  doesn't  often  confide  in  me,"  he  said  at 
last.  "She  thinks  I'm  too  young  to  be  much  good. 
I've  been  racking  my  brains  as  to  what  you  can  have 
done;  but  you  know  what  girls  are,  especially  actresses. 
They  pride  themselves  on  being  whimsical  and  capri- 
cious; I  believe  they  fancy  it's  fascinating.  She's  like 
all  the  rest.  Perhaps  by  to-morrow  she'll  be  sorry, 
and  will  write  you  a  sweet  little  note,  just  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened " 

"She's  not  like  that,"  said  Newcome.  "She  must 
have  heard  something  which  has  turned  her  against 
me,  though  I'm  unconscious  of  no  sin  which  deserves 
such  punishment." 

"  Maybe  she's  brooding  over  something  you  said 
to  her,"  suggested  Dick,  "and  feels  differently  about 
it  from  what  she  did  at  first." 

A  spark  leapt  up  in  Newcome's  dark  eyes.  "Ah!" 
he  exclaimed,  and  gave  no  hint  to  Dick  of  what  was 
in  his  mind,  though  it  was  Dick  who  had  struck  out 
the  spark.  His  thoughts  had  gone  back  to  three 
nights  ago,  when  he  had  told  Winifred  of  his  mis- 
sion, which  was  to  wreak  vengeance  upon  a  mur- 
derer. That  confession  had  made  the  one  rift  in  the 
lute  that  had  played  the  sweet  music  of  love.  Dick 
had  inadvertently  hit  upon  the  explanation,  perhaps. 
The  rift  had  widened,  and  the  music  was  to  be  for- 
ever mute. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  MOONSTONE  SPHINX 

WEEKS  went  on,  and  life  pressed  hardly  upon 
Winifred  Gray.  The  one  comfort  she  had  was  that 
her  mother,  though  still  frail  and  very,  very  weak, 
was  no  longer  in  danger,  and  that  they  were  together 
again. 

The  flat  was  given  up,  for  Winifred  had  had  a 
chance  to  let  it  furnished,  and,  though  the  amount 
paid  by  the  new  tenants  was  ridiculously  small,  that, 
with  Mrs.  Gray's  pension,  was  something  to  depend 
upon.  When  the  invalid  was  strong  enough  they 
moved  into  cheap  lodgings  in  Westminster,  and  Win- 
ifred tried  again  to  find  an  engagement. 

The  girl  was  driven  at  last  from  the  theatrical 
agents  to  those  who  made  a  specialty  of  engaging 
music-hall  artistes,  and  strove  to  persuade  her  mother 
that  she  was  delighted  when  she  was  given  a  chance 
to  sing  a  ballad  at  a  "hall"  on  the  Surrey  side. 

For  this  she  received  two  guineas  every  Saturday 
night  and  as  she  did  not  know  that  she  had  been 
engaged  on  the  strength  of  the  Mazeppa  reclame, 
rather  than  for  her  charming  young  face,  her  repu- 
tation as  an  actress  or  her  genuine  talent  as  a  singer, 
she  made  the  best  of  the  new  life,  never  telling  her 
mother  of  the  coarse  things  she  often  had  to  see  and 
hear  behind  the  scenes  at  the  hall. 

240 


THE  MOONSTONE  SPHINX  241 

Mrs.  Gray  had  had  to  be  told  the  truth  about  Dick, 
however,  as  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  to  hear  it, 
for  her  questions  had  called  for  answers  which  could 
not  be  denied.  And  after  he  had  replied  almost 
harshly  to  the  one  appealing  letter  she  wrote  him, 
he  had  to  be  left  to  go  his  own  way.  Once  he  sent 
home  money  but  this  was  promptly  posted  back  again, 
and  his  mother  and  sister  heard  from  Lionel  Macaire' s 
secretary  no  more. 

But  Macaire  was  not  in  ignorance  of  Winifred's 
movements,  and  they  all  coincided  well  enough  with 
his  wishes.  The  only  thing  he  did  not  know  of  her 
doings  was  the  episode  of  the  masked  minstrels,  and 
her  brief  "partnership"  with  Hope  Newcome.  He 
saw  no  reason  to  believe  that  her  acquaintance  with 
Newcome  had  been  more  than  his  new  protege 
admitted  —  a  few  words  of  gratitude  for  championship 
of  her  cause  near  the  stage-door  of  the  Duke  of  Clar- 
ence's Theater,  so  long  ago,  and  perhaps  a  meeting 
when  Newcome  had  found  his  way  to  the  flat,  to 
engage  Dick  Gray  as  his  secretary. 

This  method  of  securing  Dick  had  been  carefully 
planned  by  Macaire,  however,  so  that,  in  case  Win- 
ifred had  remembered  handsome,  picturesque  New- 
come  with  admiration,  he  would  be  stained  black  in 
her  eyes  forever. 

The  millionaire  knew  her  feelings  toward  himself 
well  enough  to  be  sure  that  if  Newcome  were  asso- 
ciated with  him  in  her  mind,  he  would  at  once  become 
hateful  to  her.  He  had  exacted  Newcome's  promise 
to  preserve  the  secret  of  their  bargain,  so  that  their 
acquaintance  should  not  be  prematurely  known;  and 
then,  Dick  once  engaged  as  his  secretary,  he  had  opened 


242  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  bag  with  a  malicious  chuckle,  that  the  cat  might 
spring  out. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  short  interval  that  Win- 
ifred was  left  alone  in  the  flat,  between  her  brother's 
going  and  her  mother's  homecoming,  the  desire  for 
a  desperate  coup  had  haunted  him,  beating  about 
in  his  head  like  a  great  moth  round  a  flame;  but  he 
had  put  it  away  for  three  sufficient  reasons.  In  the 
first  place,  Winifred  would  at  such  a  rime,  after  her 
late  experiences,  be  on  her  guard;  in  the  second,  the 
failure  of  such  a  scheme  would  be  fatal  to  others  in 
the  future;  while  in  the  third,  and  most  important 
place  of  all,  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  taken  Dick 
to  live  in  luxury  in  his  house  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
being  accomplished;  and  its  successful  accomplish- 
ment would  surely  give  him  Winifred,  revenge  and 
triumph,  all  in  the  grasp  of  one  outstretched  hand. 

Meanwhile  he  amused  himself  by  throwing  bait, 
which  Dick  Gray  was  the  unsuspecting  fish  to  snap 
at,  and  in  watching  the  Baron  von  Zellheim's  suc- 
cesses in  society.  He  laughed  in  his  sleeve  to  see  how 
people  took  up  the  handsome  young  man  whom  he 
had  introduced,  and  at  the  romantic  stories  regard- 
ing him.  He  laughed  to  see  how  well  the  new  Baron 
played  the  part,  and,  more  than  all,  he  laughed  at 
the  thought  of  the  surprise  he  had  in  store  for  even-- 
body, including  his  protege,  at  the  end  of  the  stip- 
ulated six  months. 

With   all   his   wealth    Macaire   had   not   been   able 
to  gain  an  undisputed  foothold  in  the  most  exclu 
set,   though   he  had   lent  money  to  lesser   Royalties, 
and  in  consequence  secured  them  for  his  dinner  par- 
ties.    But   Baron  von  Zellheim  was  more  fortunate  in 


THE  MOONSTONE  SPHINX  243 

this  regard.  In  a  few  months  he  did  what  Macaire 
had  not  been  able  to  do  in  years.  A  great  lady  who 
tolerated  the  millionaire  took  a  fancy  to  the  young 
Baron  von  Zellheim,  and  his  way  was  made  easy. 
His  title,  but  an  insignificant  one,  though  the  pride  01 
an  old  German  family,  was  not  disputed,  or,  if  dis- 
puted, only  enough  talked  about  to  make  him  a  piquant 
personality;  and  he  was  invited  everywhere  —  to  many 
houses,  indeed,  where  Macaire  had  never  been  asked 
until  the  handsome  young  man,  in  his  gratitude, 
obtained  him  a  welcome. 

Nobody,  not  even  Macaire  himself,  dreamed  of 
the  true  reason  of  the  "Baron's"  insatiable  fond- 
ness for  society,  his  eagerness  to  make  new  acquaint- 
ances among  the  mighty  ones  of  the  land.  But  there 
was  such  a  reason  beneath  all  the  young  man's  actions 
deep  under  the  surface  as  some  currents  in  the  sea,  and 
as  darkly  hidden.  If  it  had  not  been  so  he  would  not 
have  had  heart  or  courage,  after  the  loss  of  his  love, 
for  the  life  into  whose  vortex  he  had  thrown  himself. 

He  went  wherever  it  was  fashionable  to  go,  wher- 
ever he  was  likely  to  meet  people  intent  on  the  spend- 
ing of  much  money  for  their  own  pleasure,  and  he 
stayed  nowhere  long;  he  seemed  possessed  by  the 
spirit  of  restlessness.  Sometimes  he  was  in  London; 
sometimes  in  Scotland;  sometimes  in  Paris,  in  Rome, 
or  on  the  Riviera;  but  his  visits  (save  one  to  Germany 
on  private  business)  were  only  long  enough  to  see 
for  himself  what  personages  of  importance  were  amus- 
ing themselves  in  a  place,  and  the  personages  in  whom 
alone  he  appeared  interested  were  English,  or  at  least 
English-speaking. 

Baron  von  Zellheim  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 


244  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

very  rich  young  man,  not  because  he  had  ever  said 
that  he  was  rich,  but  because  he  lived  luxuriously  and 
was  a  great  friend  of  Macaire,  who  found  society 
of  most  poor  men  too  dull;  and  because  Macaire  had 
hinted  at  his  protege's  wealth. 

And  this  was  another  cause  of  laughter  to  Macaire; 
for  he  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  knowing  exactly 
what  the  Baron's  income  was,  on  what  it  depended 
and  how  long  it  would  last.  He  rather  liked  Hope 
Newcome,  though  he  was  jealous  of  his  strength,  his 
youth,  and  his  good  looks;  nevertheless,  he  looked 
forward  to  the  day  which  he  had  set  for  the  great 
crash  —  the  day  on  which  society  should  see  how  it 
had  been  fooled;  the  day  on  which  "F.  £.  Z*s"  "friend" 
would  learn  what  the  early  folly  of  "F.  £.  Z."  had 
done  for  him. 

Though  the  scheme  in  which  Dick  was  the  leading 
marionette  worked  welly  it  worked  slowly,  and  to 
hurry  it  on,  Macaire  at  last  decided  that  the  long- 
talked-of  trip  to  Monte  Carlo  should  be  undertaken. 

The  night  before  starting  he  invited  a  number  of 
very  young  men  in  a  fast  set  to  dine  with  him,  and  he 
entertained  them  afterwards  by  what  he  called  "slum- 
ming." Having  plied  his  guests  with  so  much  wine  of 
many  kinds  that  the  world  floated  before  their  eyes 
in  a  haze  of  rainbow  colors,  he  took  them  to  a  box 
at  Winifred's  music-hall,  where  they  behaved  so 
uproariously  that  they  would  have  been  turned  out  by 
the  police  had  they  been  persons  of  less  importance. 

When  Winifred  appeared,  Macaire  led  the  applause, 
which  his  friends  kept  up  so  stormfly  that  the  poor  girl 
was  obliged  to  stand  sflendy  waiting  for  it  to  cease, 
conscious  that  Macaire  was  staring  at  her  and  that  all 


THE  MOONSTONE  SPHINX  245 

the  audience  saw  him  stare.  If  Dick  had  not  been  at 
home  in  Park  Lane  getting  ready  for  the  journey  next 
day,  even  his  anger  might  have  been  excited  against 
the  man  who  could  do  no  wrong. 

The  trip  to  Monte  Carlo  was  to  be  made  in  Macaire' s 
steam  yacht,  which  was  supposed  to  be  the  second 
largest,  the  second  handsomest,  and  the  first  in  speed, 
on  the  seas.  The  millionaire  took  with  him  a  party 
of  a  dozen  friends,  besides  his  highly  favored  secretary, 
and  among  these  were  several  women  more  conspicuous 
for  beauty  than  dignity,  and  not  too  particular  to  flirt 
a  little  with  Dick  Gray  when  for  the  moment  there  was 
no  better  way  of  keeping  their  hands  in. 

Every  night  after  dinner  they  played  poker,  or 
bridge,  or  ecarte,  in  the  beautiful  cabin  of  the  yacht, 
and  stakes  were  high.  Dick  was  asked  to  join,  and 
could  not  bear  to  refuse.  Fortunately  for  him  Macaire 
had  made  him  one  or  two  presents,  and  besides,  luck 
was  often  with  him;  still,  to  play  as  the  others  played 
subjected  him  to  a  severe  nervous  strain. 

Then  came  Monte  Carlo,  and  —  the  beginning  of 
the  end.  Life  for  Dick  Gray  began  to  be  a  brilliant 
dream,  a  delirium.  Where  everybody  had  plenty  of 
money,  he  lost  his  head,  and  fancied  that  he  had 
plenty,  too.  Macaire  encouraged  him  in  the  fancy 
and  finding  that  the  gambling  rooms  fascinated  his 
secretary,  he  told  him  to  "go  in  and  win,  and  be  a 
good-plucked  one."  Beginners  were  always  lucky. 
Who  knew  but  Dick  would  break  the  bank,  like  that 
chap  Wells  a  few  years  ago  ?  What  was  a  sovereign 
here  or  there,  when  there  was  any  fun  to  be  had  ? 
He  would  see  that  Dick  didn't  come  to  grief. 

Thus  cheered  into  the  thick  of  the  fray,  Dick  let 


246  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

himself  go,  and  ceased  to  resist  the  maddening  excite- 
ment which  sang  in  his  veins  a  wonderful  song. 

Rouge  et  Noir  was  the  game  which  held  him  its 
willing  slave,  for  he  had  evolved  a  system  which 
worked  well  for  a  time.  He  won  two  hundred  pounds 
in  a  couple  of  days,  and  as  Macaire  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  that  Dick  was  merely  his  secretary,  and  not 
a  guest  with  the  others,  there  was  plenty  of  time  to 
spend  in  testing  the  system.  But  one  night  it  failed 
—  failed  unaccountably.  The  two  hundred  pounds 
melted  away  like  gold  in  a  furnace.  Dick's  small 
savings  from  what  he  had  made  on  board  the  Diavola 
followed,  until,  with  his  last  three  pounds,  luck  began 
again  to  change.  He  staked  on  red,  and  red  won;  on 
black  —  the  same  thing  happened.  He  grew  excited, 
and  lost  his  all,  but  he  was  sure  this  was  because,  in 
his  confusion  of  mind,  he  had  forgotten  the  system. 
If  he  only  had  something  to  go  on  with ! 

Then  he  remembered  that  in  his  pocket  was  an 
uncommon  trinket  of  Macaire's,  which  the  million- 
aire had  tossed  to  him  that  afternoon,  carelessly  ask- 
ing if  he  would  take  it  to  be  repaired.  It  was  sup- 
posed, his  employer  had  said,  to  bring  luck  to  its 
possessor,  and  he  was  rather  superstitious  about  the 
thing,  having  carried  it  with  him  in  his  pocket  for 
years.  Still,  judging  from  Macaire's  tone  and  indif- 
ferent way  of  handing  it  over  to  him  for  repairing, 
Dick  did  not  believe  that  the  millionaire  really  attached 
great  importance  to  the  fetich. 

The  young  man  searched  in  his  pocket,  and  brought 
out  in  his  hand  a  very  curious  jewel. 

It  was  an  exact  representation  of  the  sphinx's  head, 
exquisitely  carved  from  a  single  large  Egyptian  moon- 


THE  MOONSTONE  SHPINX  247 

stone,  holding  in  its  depths  a  marvelous  blue  light, 
radiant,  elusive,  like  a  soul  imprisoned  in  the  stone 
and  striving  to  escape.  Underneath  was  a  small  gold 
screw,  by  which  the  luck-giving  talisman  could  be 
fastened  into  the  coat  or  the  pocket  of  the  wearer,  for 
safety;  and  it  was  the  screw  which  had  been  broken. 

"I  wonder  if  the  bank  would  lend  me  anything 
on  this  ? "  thought  Dick.  "  I  could  get  the  thing 
back  in  a  few  minutes,  for  I  feel  I  should  have  luck, 
if  I  only  had  the  chance.  And  supposing  I  should 
muff  it,  why,  I  need  merely  pretend  that  the  jeweler 
hadn't  finished  his  work,  till  I  could  reclaim  it. 
Macaire' s  such  a  good-natured  fellow  he  wouldn't  cut 
up  rough  at  a  little  delay." 

Dick  regretted  the  roll  of  bank-notes  with  which 
Macaire  had  entrusted  him  the  day  before  to  buy 
various  more  or  less  useless  odds  and  ends  that  the 
millionaire  fancied  he  wanted.  The  secretary  had 
had  forty  or  fifty  pounds  of  his  employer's  in  his 
pockets  when  he  walked  into  the  Casino  last  time, 
and,  indeed,  now  he  thought  of  it,  Macaire  had  often 
thrust  money  upon  him  since  coming  to  Monte  Carlo. 
He  had  always  faithfully  disposed  of  it  by  carrying 
out  the  commissions,  and  last  night's  case  had  been  no 
exception  to  the  rule,  for  he  had  expended  the  money 
according  to  instructions,  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing. But  now,  he  wished  that  he  had  not  been  in 
such  a  hurry. 

Macaire  had  encouraged  him  to  try  his  luck  at  the 
gaming  tables,  and  had  said  that  he  wouldn't  "see 
him  come  to  grief."  Very  likely  he  had  meant  his 
secretary  to  have  plenty  in  his  pocket  in  case  of 
emergencies,  and  had  been  too  tactful  to  speak  out 


248  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

bluntly.  At  all  events,  Dick  thought  now,  in  his 
almost  frenzied  desire  to  go  on,  that  he  would  have 
"chanced  it,"  had  the  money  still  been  in  his  possess- 
sion.  In  all  probability  he  would  have  been  able  to 
replace  it  at  once  with  his  own  winnings,  and  if  not, 
he  could  have  gone  frankly  to  Macaire,  confessing 
that  he  had  borrowed  something  which  he  would 
repay  out  of  his  salary. 

With  the  moonstone  sphinx,  of  course,  it  was  dif- 
ferent. If  he  could  pledge  it,  and  obtain  a  few  pounds 
to  go  on  with  now,  and  should  be  so  very  unfortunate 
as  not  to  be  able  to  redeem  it  to-night,  he  would  not 
care  to  confess  what  he  had  done  to  Macaire.  He 
would  get  it  back  when  he  could,  which  would  certainly 
be  soon,  at  worst,  for  it  did  not  seem  to  him  a  thing  worth 
more  than  seven  or  eight  sovereigns  at  most. 

He  was  shy  of  doing  what  was  in  his  mind  to  do, 
not  knowing  whether  he  might  be  rebuffed  or  not; 
but  as  he  stood  not  far  from  the  table  where  he  wished 
to  be,  gazing  doubtfully  at  the  moonstone  and  cal- 
culating its  value,  a  voice  addressed  him  in  French. 
Looking  up  with  a  start,  he  saw  that  the  speaker 
was  an  elderly  Parisienne,  with  bistre  under  her  sunken 
eyes,  rouge  on  her  haggard  cheeks,  and  a  handsome, 
poppy-red  evening  dress  emphasizing  the  emaciation 
of  her  figure. 

Dick  was  not  a  French  scholar  but  he  had  learned 
the  language  with  Winifred  when  they  had  both  been 
children,  and  he  could  understand  enough  to  hold 
his  own  in  an  ordinary*  conversation. 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur,  but  that  is  a  very  charm- 
ing ornament  you  have  there,"  the  lady  in  poppy 
color  was  remarking.  "Quite  unique.  Will  you  allow 


THE  MOONSTONE  SPHINX  249 

me  to  look  at  it  more  closely  ?  My  great  fad  is  uncom- 
mon jewels  of  all  sorts." 

Dick  held  out  his  hand,  and  a  dyed  head,  spark- 
ling with  diamond  combs  and  pins,  was  bowed  over 
it.  The  lady  did  not  attempt  to  touch  the  moon- 
stone, as  he  had  feared  she  might,  but  peered  at  it 
through  her  lorgnettes  as  it  lay  in  his  palm,  crying 
out  at  its  beauty.  "It  is  for  luck,  Madame,"  Dick 
informed  her. 

"I  thought  it  must  be  a  fetich,"  she  responded. 
"Intrinsically,  perhaps,  the  jewel  may  not  be  worth 
more  than  500  francs"  (Dick  was  astonished  at  so 
high  an  estimate),  "yet  the  workmanship  is  perfect, 
and  the  stone  has  a  rare  light.  How  I  wish  that 
your  talisman  were  for  sale,  Monsieur!  I  would  give 
you  —  in  reason  —  what  you  liked  to  ask,  that  I  might 
add  it  to  my  collection  and  also  use  it  as  a  rival  to 
my  lucky  pig"  (laughing,  she  held  out  a  golden  pig, 
with  ruby  eyes),  "which  has  basely  betrayed  me 
to-night." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  could  very  well  sell  it,"  stam- 
mered Dick,  "though  I  was  just  wondering  if  I  could 
raise  money  on  the  thing." 

Perhaps  the  lady's  experienced  eyes  had  read  some 
such  purpose  in  his  before  addressing  him. 

"That  would,  I  fear,  be  impossible  here,"  she 
said.  "I  know  the  rules  well  —  I  confess  to  being  an 
old  habituee.  Monsieur,  if  you  will  sell  me  the  moon- 
stone alone  (I  do  not  care  for  the  gold  screw  with  the 
initials;  you  can  keep  that),  I  would  give  you,  this 
minute,  1,000  francs.  It  is  far  more  than  you  could  get 
from  a  jeweler." 

Dick's  face  flushed,  and  he  bit  his  lips,  his  eyes 


250  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

traveling  wistfully  to  the  pocketbook,  stuffed  with 
gold  and  French  notes,  which  the  lady  in  red  was 
producing  from  a  brocaded  silk  bag  that  hung  at  her 
waist. 

Suppose  he  did  sell  the  moonstone  ?  He  could  tell 
Macaire  that  he  had  lost  it,  and  Macaire  would  believe 
him,  especially  if  he  kept  the  screw,  which  would  be 
good  evidence  that  the  sphinx' s-head  had  come  off. 
Macaire  would  not  mind  much;  he  would  be  sure  to 
forgive,  and  say,  "It  doesn't  matter." 

With  1,000  francs  to  stake,  all  the  bad  luck  of 
the  evening  could  be  retrieved.  Something  told  him 
that  it  would  be  so. 

"All  right;  you  can  have  the  sphinx,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  And  the  deal  was  closed.  The  lady  had 
the  jewel;  Dick  had  the  money;  and  the  "some- 
thing" which  whispered  hopefully  of  luck  to  come, 
did  not  add  that  with  the  changing  hands  of  the  moon- 
stone his  future,  his  sister's  future,  and  the  future  of 
two  others  would  be  changed  as  well. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHAT  THE   LIGHT  SHOWED 

DICK'S  spirit  of  prophecy  had  been  a  deceiving 
spirit.  He  lost  his  thousand  francs. 

Next  morning  Macaire  said:  "By  the  way,  that 
moonstone  sphinx-head  I  gave  you  to  have  repaired. 
When  will  it  be  ready  ?" 

The  question  came  so  abruptly,  and  the  million- 
aire's look,  to  his  secretary's  stricken  conscience, 
seemed  so  keen  that  Dick  grew  confused,  and  instead 
of  saying  that  he  had  lost  the  moonstone,  and  apologiz- 
ing as  he  had  intended,  he  stammered  that  the  jeweler 
could  not  do  the  work  for  a  day  or  two. 

"Next  time  you're  out  just  step  in  and  tell  him  it 
will  be  a  favor  to  me  if  he  can  let  me  have  the  thing 
to-morrow.  The  fact  is,  I  feel  quite  lost  without  it," 
said  Macaire;  and  Dick  felt  a  sensation  of  coldness 
and  weight  in  his  breast. 

Last  night  nothing  had  seemed  of  importance, 
except  to  get  money;  and  his  employer  had  appeared 
to  care  little  more  for  the  moonstone  than  for  fifty 
other  valuable  odds  and  ends  which  he  flung  reck- 
lessly about  or  even  gave  to  Dick  or  his  valet,  if  the 
mood  seized  him.  Dick  was  very  much  frightened, 
and  could  settle  himself  to  nothing  all  day. 

In  the  afternoon  Macaire  asked  him  if  he  had  been 
to  the  jeweler's  yet. 

251 


252  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"No,"  faltered  Dick.  "The  fact  is,  I "  he 

was  on  the  point  of  beginning  his  made-up  tale  con- 
cerning the  loss  of  the  jewel  when  the  millionaire 
broke  in,  for  the  first  time  in  his  secretary's  experi- 
ence of  him,  showing  anger. 

"By  heaven!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  can't  get  anybody 
to  remember  my  wishes,  \\hat  jeweler  has  the  stone  ? 
I'll  go  to  him  myself." 

Dick  grew  hot  and  cold.  "No,  no,  Mr.  Macaire," 
he  implored.  "  I  haven't  forgotten,  really.  I  was  busy. 
I  will  go  at  once." 

He  went  out  into  the  street,  not  knowing  what  he 
should  do.  He  had  cut  the  ground  away  from  under 
his  own  feet  now,  committing  himself  to  the  statement 
that  he  had  made.  Next  time  they  met,  if  he  could  not 
satisfy  Macaire  that  he  had  been  to  the  jeweler's,  the 
millionaire  would  insist  upon  having  the  man's  name, 
and  Dick  would  stand  discredited.  Something  must 
be  done  at  once,  but  what  —  what  ? 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  woman  who  had  bought 
the  jewel.  If  he  could  offer  her  the  thousand  francs 
she  had  paid,  and  at  the  same  time  throw  himself  upon 
her  compassion,  she  might  be  induced  to  sell  the  moon- 
stone back  again.  But  first,  he  must  get  the  thousand 
francs,  and  then  he  must  find  the  lady. 

Having  accomplished  no  more  than  evolving  this 
plan,  he  returned  to  the  hotel,  where  Macaire  had 
taken  several  of  the  best  suites  for  himself  and  his 
friends,  since  it  had  not  been  considered  convenient 
to  spend  the  nights  on  board  his  yacht. 

"Well,  have  you  been  to  the  jeweler?"  Macaire 
called  from  his  private  sitting-room,  as  Dick  would 
have  passed  the  door. 


WHAT  THE  LIGHT  SHOWED          253 

"Yes,"  answered  the  young  man,  desperately. 
"  He  will  try  to  have  the  sphinx-head  ready  by  to-mor- 
row night." 

Ten  minutes  later  Macaire  went  out,  having  shouted 
a  request  that  Dick  would  write  three  or  four  letters 
for  him  while  he  was  away. 

Dick  knew  what  his  employer  wished  him  to  write, 
and  sat  down  at  the  desk  in  the  sitting-room,  which 
Macaire  had  left  open.  The  millionaire  was  noted 
for  his  careless  ways,  and  to-day  he  had  left  lying 
on  the  desk  a  roll  of  English  bank-notes. 

Dick  looked  at  them,  fascinated,  then  drew  the  roll 
toward  him  and  began  counting  it  over. 

There  were  twenty  ten-pound  notes,  six  five-pound 
notes  —  two  hundred  and  thirty  pounds  in  all.  Macaire 
was  certain  not  to  have  taken  the  numbers,  he  had 
never  been  known  to  do  such  a  thing;  and  money 
flowed  like  water  through  his  hands.  In  all  proba- 
bility he  was  not  aware  how  much  this  fat  roll  con- 
tained. If  several  notes  were  abstracted  he  would 
not  be  the  wiser;  even  if  he  did  discover  his  loss, 
after  leaving  the  money  lying  out  on  his  desk  he  would 
not  know  whom  to  blame.  One  of  the  hotel  servants 
would  be  suspected;  but  it  would  be  unfair,  in  such 
circumstances,  to  make  an  accusation. 

Feeling  faint  and  sick,  Dick  selected  five  ten-pound 
notes,  huddled  them  away  in  his  pocket,  and  pushed 
the  roll  back  into  place  where  it  had  lain.  Luckily, 
he  had  finished  the  letters  first,  for  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  concentrate  his  mind  upon 
writing  a  single  line. 

He  had  taken  the  first  step;  now  for  the  second. 
And,  hurrying  out,  he  went  to  the  Casino,  hoping  to 


254  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

find  there  the  purchaser  of  the  jewel,  who  had  seemed 
to  be  a  keen  gambler,  and  had  said  that  she  was  an 
"old  habituee  of  Monte  Carlo." 

To  his  joy,  he  presently  spied  her,  absorbed  in  the 
game.  His  heart  leaped  up  as  he  saw  on  the  table 
beside  her  winnings  the  sphinx's  head,  evidently  in 
use  as  a  fetich. 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  she  motioned  him  away; 
she  was  not  to  be  interrupted.  Again  and  again 
he  implored  her  attention  for  a  moment,  but  she 
flashed  out  at  him  in  angry  French  that  she  would 
complain;  she  would  have  him  removed  if  he  dis- 
turbed her. 

She  was  quite  capable  of  keeping  her  word,  and 
fearing  a  scene,  Dick  was  forced  to  wait  upon  her 
convenience.  Time  dragged  on,  while  he  despaired; 
but  at  last  Madame  was  satisfied,  and  thought,  per- 
haps, of  her  dinner.  Gathering  up  her  winnings, 
which  was  considerable,  she  turned  from  the  table 
and  to  Dick.  She  was  a  different  woman  now  —  soft 
and  agreeable  in  manner  as  if  she  had  never  threat- 
ened vengeance.  What  was  it  that  Monsieur  wanted  ? 
Had  he  another  jewel  to  sell  ? 

Dick  explained  that  his  desire  was  to  the  contrary 
effect.  But  at  the  first  words  the  hard,  painted  face 
grew  harder.  The  lady  was  sorry  that  Monsieur 
regretted  disposing  of  the  fetich,  but  she  could  not 
think  of  giving  it  up.  Already  it  had  brought  her 
great  luck.  No  —  there  was  no  price  he  could  name 
for  which  she  would  change  her  mind. 

m 

The  unhappy  young  man  poured  arguments  upon 
her;  he  had  reason  to  believe  the  jewel  had  been 
stolen  by  the  person  who  gave  it  to  him;  there  would 


WHAT  THE  LIGHT  SHOWED          255 

be  trouble  for  Madame.  But  Madame  would  risk 
it  —  so  she  replied  with  a  smile,  and  the  glint  in  her 
eyes  caused  Dick  to  regret  this  last  suggestion.  He 
feared  that  she  might  leave  Monte  Carlo. 

Nothing  that  he  could  say  would  move  her,  and 
she  airily  remarked  that  if  Monsieur  persecuted  her 
by  following  to  her  hotel  she  would  certainly  appeal 
to  the  police. 

Dick  was  in  a  worse  plight  than  before,  for  now 
he  was  doubly  a  thief  and  a  failure.  He  determined 
that  he  would  replace  the  money  he  had  taken,  since 
it  had  not  availed  his  purpose,  and  would  concoct  the 
best  story  he  could  about  the  loss  of  the  moonstone, 
saying  that  he  had  not  confessed  at  first,  hoping  to 
find  it. 

By  this  time  Macaire  and  his  guests  would  be 
dining,  for  Dick  was  very  late.  Feeling  certain  of 
this,  he  went  straight  to  the  millionaire's  sitting- 
room,  which  was  apparently  deserted  and  in  semi- 
darkness.  It  was  now  the  last  of  April,  but  as  it 
was  past  eight  o'clock,  the  night  was  falling  in  deep 
blue  dusk. 

Dick  stepped  softly  into  the  room,  and  groping 
his  way  to  the  desk  which  was  near  the  window,  felt 
for  the  roll  of  bank-notes,  upon  which  —  if  it  was  in 
the  place  he  had  first  seen  and  left  it  —  he  knew 
exactly  where  to  put  his  hand.  But  suddenly  the  room 
was  flooded  with  electric  light;  and,  dazzled  and 
blinking,  Dick  saw  Macaire  standing  with  a  finger 
and  thumb  on  the  electric  button  which  he  had  just 
turned. 

On  the  man's  hideous  face  was  a  look  which  Dick 
had  never  seen  before  —  a  look  that  was  devilish. 


256  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"I  was  right  then;  you  are  the  thief,"  he  said. 
"  You  whom  I  have  made  my  friend.  You  have  stolen 
my  money." 

Dick  could  not  speak.  His  lips  fell  apart,  his 
eyes  stared. 

"When  I  went  out  this  afternoon  I  left  on  this 
desk  a  roll  of  bank-notes  which  I  intended  to  devote 
to  a  certain  purpose,"  Macaire  went  on.  "There 
were  two  hundred  and  thirty  pounds  exactly.  I  had 
not  been  gone  an  hour  when  I  remembered  the  money 
and  where  I  had  put  it.  I  should  have  thought  it  was 
safe,  as  I  knew  you  would  be  writing  letters  at  the  desk, 
had  I  not  heard  while  I  was  out  a  thing  which  gave 
me  a  shock  and  opened  my  eyes.  You  told  me  that 
you  had  taken  my  moonstone  to  a  jeweler's,  but  a 
friend  of  mine  who  knew  what  it  was  like  saw  it  at  the 
Casino  in  the  hands  of  a  Frenchwoman,  who  was  using 
it  for  luck.  Knowing  that  I  valued  the  thing,  he  asked 
the  woman  where  she  had  got  it,  and  was  informed  that 
she  had  bought  it  last  night  of  a  young  Englishman 
who  wanted  money  for  the  game.  Now,  Gray,  what 
have  you  to  say  to  that  ?" 

"I  —  I  -  stammered  Dick,  like  a  schoolboy 
arraigned  by  the  master,  "  I  meant  to  tell  you.  It  was 
done  in  a  moment  of  impulse." 

"A  moment  of  impulse!"  sneered  Macaire.  "And 
it  was  in  a  moment  of  impulse  that  you  took  fifty  pounds 
from  the  roll  of  money  on  my  desk,  relying  on  my 
carelessness,  or  meaning  perhaps  to  put  the  theft  on 
a  servant?" 

"Who  —  who  has  dared  to  say  that?" 

"No  one  has  said  so.  But  you  should  have  thought 
of  your  mother  and  sister." 


WHAT  THE  LIGHT  SHOWED          257 

"I  must  have  been  mad.  For  heaven's  sake,  have 
mercy." 

"None  of  that  conventional  cant,  if  you  please. 
But  you  speak  of  your  mother  and  sister.  On  one 
condition,  and  one  only,  will  I  spare  you  the  punish- 
ment you  deserve." 

Dick's  eyes,  strained  and  bloodshot  in  his  agony, 
grew  bright. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,  and  I'll  do  it  —  I'll  do  any- 
thing." 

"It  is  not  for  you  to  do.  I'll  give  you  time  to  write 
home  and  get  an  answer  by  telegraph.  If  Winifred 
Gray  cares  enough  for  her  brother  to  save  him, 
she  can." 

"You  want  her  to  intercede  for  me?" 

"I  want  her  to  buy  you  off." 

Dick  grew  pale.     "You  mean " 

"I  mean  this.  A  fortnight  from  to-day  I  intend 
to  be  in  London.  I  give  a  dinner  on  that  night  at 
nine  o'clock  to  friends  at  my  house.  If  she  tele- 
graphs you  that  she  consents  to  come  to  that  dinner 
you  can  go  to  England  with  me  a  free  man.  No  one 
but  ourselves  need  know  what  has  happened.  If  she 
refuses  you  go  to  jail,  and  I  stay  on  only  long  enough 
to  see  you  through  the  court,  and  make  sure  you  get 
the  sentence  you  merit.  Then  I  go,  and  leave  you 
to  think  over  your  ingratitude  in  prison." 

"Oh,  if  that  is  all!"  cried  Dick,  "she  would  do 
that,  and  more,  for  me,  I  know  —  for  mother's  sake, 
if  not  mine.  But  it  is  so  strange  that  you  should 
wish " 

''That's  my  affair  and  hers,"  broke  in  Macaire. 
"Write  now;  tell  her  what  you  have  done,  and  what  I 


258  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

mean  to  do.  Tell  her  I  will  only  wait  to  act  until  she 
wires  her  answer.  Whether  you  are  disgraced  for  life, 
as  you  richly  deserve  to  be,  or  whether  you  are  spared, 
depends  entirely  upon  her  decision.  Sit  down  now  and 
write.  Make  this  clear  to  her.  And  when  you  have 
written  your  letter  I  will  read  it." 

Dick  half  fell  into  the  chair  at  the  desk  to  which 
Macaire  pointed,  and,  taking  up  a  pen  with  fingers 
that  shook  almost  too  much  to  hold  it,  he  began  to 
write.  As  he  wrote,  bowing  his  face  over  his  task, 
a  tear  or  two  fell  on  the  letter,  raising  round  blisters 
on  the  thick,  creamy  paper.  He  had  always  had  the 
gift  of  writing,  and  now,  after  the  first  effort  of  begin- 
ning, he  became  eloquent,  impassioned,  in  his  appeal. 
He  painted  a  terrible  picture  of  his  future  as  it  would 
be  if  Winifred  failed  him,  and  he  strove  to  show  what  a 
small  thing,  after  all,  was  exacted  of  her  by  the  eccentric 
whim  of  Lionel  Macaire. 

When  he  had  signed  himself  her  repentant  and  dis- 
tracted brother,  loving  her,  hoping  alone  in  her,  while 
on  the  verge  of  madness,  he  gave  the  letter  to  Macaire, 
who  read  it  slowly. 

"That  will  do,"  the  latter  pronounced  at  last. 
"She  will  get  this  the  day  after  to-morrow.  The 
same  day  you  ought  to  receive  her  telegram.  Mean- 
time, I  advise  you  to  have  an  illness  and  keep  to 
your  room." 

"You  will  allow  me  to  do  that?"  Dick  stammered. 

"Till  the  wire  comes;  then  we  shall  see.  But  I 
warn  you,  there  is  no  use  thinking  of  giving  me  the 
slip.  The  'invalid'  will  be  watched  too  carefully 
for  that.  And  an  attempt  would  only  make  matters 
worse  for  you  in  the  end." 


WHAT  THE  LIGHT  SHOWED          259 

"There  will  be  no  such  attempt,"  said  Dick.  "I 
promise." 

Macaire  sneered  at  him.  "As  though  I'd  take 
your  word  after  what's  happened!  I  shall  have  more 
than  your  promise  to  depend  on.  I'll  post  this 
letter.  Now  go  to  your  kennel,  like  the  whipped 
dog  you  are." 

All  Dick's  blood  seemed  tingling  in  his  face.  His 
impulse  was  to  strike  and  avenge  this  last  insult;  but 
his  hand  fell  even  as  it  clinched  for  lifting.  The 
awful  look  in  Macaire's  narrowed  eyes  cowed  him  as 
if,  indeed,  he  had  been  a  whipped  dog. 

Turning  without  another  word,  he  went  to  his 
room,  Macaire  following  as  far  as  the  first  threshold 
to  watch  him  down  the  passage. 

In  quietness  and  darkness,  with  his  door  locked, 
he  walked  to  the  window  that  looked  out  upon  the 
garish  brightness  of  the  rock-set  town,  blazing  like 
a  triple  necklace  of  jewels  against  the  blue  velvet 
and  gauze  of  sea  and  sky.  If  he  chose  and  —  dared 
-he  might  throw  himself  headlong  out,  and  all 
would  be  ended.  But  no,  he  would  not  do  that.  He 
did  not  wish  to  die,  leaving  such  a  legacy  of  shame 
to  his  mother,  for  whom  he  longed  now  with  a  boy's 
home-sick  longing.  She  loved  him  dearly  still,  in 
spite  of  all,  and  there  was  nothing  she  could  not  for- 
give. That  was  the  way  with  mothers.  And  Wini- 
fred would  rescue  him  —  Winifred,  who  had  been 
partly  right  about  Macaire,  after  all. 

As  he  stood  gazing  miserably  out  upon  the  crowds 
of  light-hearted  people,  whose  merriment  mocked 
him,  there  came  a  quick  knock  at  the  door.  Dick 
went  to  it  and  listened  for  a  few  seconds,  expecting 


26o  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

he  scarcely  knew  what;  then  in  a  low  voice  he  demanded 
who  was  there. 

"It's  I  — von  Zellheim,"  came  the  answer;  and  with 
a  hopeful  leap  of  the  heart  Dick  unlocked  the  door. 

"Thank  heaven  you're  here!"  he  exclaimed,  when 
Hope  Newcome  was  with  him  and  the  key  turned 
again. 

It  was  dark  in  the  room,  but  Dick  switched  on  the 
light,  and  Newcome  uttered  an  ejaculation  at  sight 
of  the  younger  man's  face. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"Haven't  you  heard  anything  from  Macaire?" 

"No.  I  haven't  seen  him  yet.  I'm  just  from  the 
train  —  straight  from  London.  I  asked  for  the  num- 
ber of  your  room,  for  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  before 
I  saw  anybody  else.  You  look  rather  queer.  I  hope 
you  aren't  ill,  or  have  had  bad  news  from  home." 

There  was  something  so  strong,  and  dependable, 
in  the  personality  of  this  tall,  dark  young  man  in 
traveling  dress,  that  Dick's  miserable,  home-sick  heart 
went  out  to  him.  The  need  of  confession,  the  des- 
perate longing  for  someone  to  stand  his  friend,  broke 
down  the  barriers  of  shamed  vanity  which  would  have 
hedged  round  the  secret  of  his  guilt;  he  blurted  out 
the  story  of  his  own  folly,  leaving  nothing  untold 
save  only  the  condition  that  Macaire  had  made.  In- 
stinctively he  knew  what  Newcome's  feeling  would 
be  at  having  a  girl  like  Winifred  dragged  in.  He 
was  afraid  that  Newcome  might  even  try  to  prevent 
Winifred  from  accepting  Macaire's  terms. 

"Macaire  threatens  to  call  in  the  police  and  charge 
me  as  a  common  thief,"  he  said,  "and  all  for  sheer 
spite.  He's  got  his  money;  and  as  for  that  wretched 


WHAT  THE  LIGHT  SHOWED          261 

bauble,  who  would  have  dreamed,  with  all  the  jewelry 
which  he  throws  about,  that  he  cared  a  rap  for  it  ? 
But  oh,  von  Zellheim,  if  there  was  any  way  of  getting 
the  thing  again!  You  used  to  be  friendly  with  Winnie. 
You'd  take  some  trouble  for  her  sake  still,  perhaps, 
though  she's  treated  you  so  badly,  if  only  to  show 
that  you  don't  bear  malice.  You're  such  a  good-look- 
ing chap,  and  have  such  a  way  with  you,  that  you  can 
do  anything  with  women.  For  heaven's  sake  try  to 
see  this  old  hag  who  made  a  fool  of  me,  and  get  the 
moonstone  sphinx-head  - 

"What!"  exclaimed  Newcome,  with  a  sudden 
start.  "  Macaire's  jewel  —  that  you  sold  —  is  it  a  blue 
moonstone  carved  into  a  sphinx-head,  with  a  gold 
screw  underneath,  engraved  with  the  initials '  F.  E.  Z.'  ?" 

"You've  seen  it  then?"  cried  Dick. 

"No;  but  I'd  give  much  to  see  it.  Have  I  described 
it  rightly?" 

"It's  exact.  The  screw  with  the  initials  in  little 
letters  at  the  top  is  in  my  pocket.  The  she-fiend  didn't 
care  for  it." 

"Let  me  look,"  said  Newcome,  "And  I'll  promise 
you  to  get  that  sphinx's  head  if  I  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  do  it." 

"God  bless  you!"  ejaculated  Dick. 

"I  hope  He  will.  But  it's  a  selfish  wish.  I  came 
to  England  to  find  the  man  who  had  that  sphinx- 
head.  I  came  from  England  to  Monte  Carlo  to  see 
if  Lionel  Macaire  was  that  man." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 

HALF  an  hour  after  knocking  at  the  door  of  Dick 
Gray's  room,  Hope  Newcome  went  out  again.  Dick 
had  been  instructed  not  to  mention  his  arrival.  Down- 
stairs the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  had  inquired  for 
Mr.  Richard  Gray,  of  Mr.  Macaire's  party,  was  not 
known. 

Those  few  words  of  Dick's  —  the  allusion  to  the 
sphinx's  head  —  had  sent  flashes  of  lightning  through 
Newcome's  veins.  The  mission  which  had  brought 
him  through  strange  vicissitudes  and  over  many  thou- 
sands of  miles  had  seemed  no  further  advanced,  though 
for  months  his  whole  life  had  been  given  to  it.  Then, 
one  day,  a  man  had  begged  of  him  in  Park  Lane  near 
Lionel  Macaire's  house,  and  Newcome  had  given  the 
man  half  a  sovereign  because  he  was  an  American, 
speaking  with  a  strong  nasal  accent.  And  the  beggar, 
who  was  grateful  and  loquacious,  began  telling  him  a 
queer,  rambling  story. 

For  very  few  ears  would  it  have  struck  a  keynote; 
the  narrator  himself  knew  not  the  value  of  his  utter- 
ances, still  less  of  his  silence,  or  he  would  not  have 
been  begging  in  the  street,  because  the  person  from 
whom  he  had  expected  a  gift  was  absent.  But  Fate 
had  ordained  that  his  tongue  should  make  music  in 
the  ear  which  could  understand. 

262 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE     263 

Newcome  took  the  man  to  a  restaurant  and  gave 
him  a  meal,  much  as  Macaire  had  done  with  him 
nearly  five  months  ago  in  Brighton.  Indeed,  the 
thought  of  that  occasion  was  printed  in  strong  black 
and  white  upon  his  mind.  In  the  midst  of  the  wild 
elation  for  which  he  could  have  shouted  aloud,  there 
was  loathing  of  the  memory  that  he  had  broken  bread 
with  Macaire  not  once,  but  many  times.  He  was  living 
on  money  which  came  to  him  from  Macaire,  also;  and 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  secret  which  had  darkened  his 
life  since  boyhood,  this  reflection  would  have  half 
maddened  him  —  believing  what  he  had  begun  to 
believe  of  the  millionaire. 

But  with  the  knowledge  of  that  secret  before  him, 
the  money  became  far  more  than  ever  his  own.  It 
never  had  been  Macaire's.  He  now  had  a  right  to 
it,  every  penny  —  and  more,  which  he  might,  but  did 
not  mean  to  claim. 

Without  letting  the  loquacious  beggar  guess  that 
he  was  a  person  of  importance,  Newcome  offered  to 
support  his  countryman  until  he  could  get  work.  The 
shabby  American  was  to  be  paid  a  pound  at  the  end 
of  every  week  —  this,  of  course,  rendering  it  necessary 
that  "Baron  von  Zellheim"  should  be  kept  in  touch 
with  him  and  in  possession  of  his  address. 

When  this  matter  was  satisfactorily  settled  New- 
come  made  certain  inquiries  about  Macaire  which  he 
had  never  had  the  curiosity  to  make  before.  He 
ascertained,  apparently  in  a  casual  way,  when  the  mil- 
lionaire had  first  become  known  as  a  millionaire,  and 
traced  back  his  career  to  a  time  before  he  had  settled 
in  England. 

All  this  would  have  been  nothing  without  the  clue 


264  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

which  a  beggar  in  the  street  had  supplied;  and  the 
clue  itself  was  only  a  broken  thread.  To  find  the 
other  end  and  match  both  together  Newcome  had 
traveled  to  Monte  Carlo. 

There  again  Fate  had  played  into  his  hands  through 
the  ingenious  deviltry  of  Macaire  himself  (for  even  the 
most  astute  of  men  make  mistakes  sometimes),  and  the 
folly  of  Dick  Gray. 

The  clue  was  supplied  —  yet  at  the  same  time  it  was 
missing;  and  Newcome  made  up  his  mind  that  since 
the  work  he  had  come  to  do  must  be  done  without 
bungling,  what  he  had  waited  for  so  long  he  must 
wait  for  still.  After  all  these  years,  what  was  a  day 
—  a  week  —  a  month  ? 

From  Dick  he  had  the  description  of  the  woman 
who  had  bought  the  moonstone,  but  he  was  not  as 
fortunate  as  Dick  had  been  in  his  quest  for  her.  He 
could  not  find  her  at  the  Casino. 

He  did  not  wish,  as  things  had  turned  out,  that 
Macaire  should  know  of  his  presence  in  Monte  Carlo; 
yet  he  haunted  the  gaming-rooms  for  hours  that  night, 
running  the  risk  that  Macaire  himself,  or  one  of 
Macaire's  friends,  might  stroll  in  and  see  him. 

When  it  was  close  upon  eleven  o'clock,  however, 
and  Newcome  had  seen  no  one  resembling  the  pic- 
ture which  Dick  had  graphically  sketched  for  him,  he 
passed  on  the  description  to  one  of  the  men  at  the 
doors.  This  person  thought  he  recognized  it.  The 
lady  whom  Monsieur  desired  to  meet  was  probably 
the  Comtesse  de  Silbery,  who  was  well  known  at 
Monte  Carlo,  coming  at  least  once  every  twelvemonth 
for  the  past  ten  years,  and  staying  a  month  or  six 
weeks.  She  had  been  at  the  Casino  all  the  afternoon, 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE     265 

and  usually  came  again  in  the  evening  after  dinner, 
staying  late;  but  to-night  was  an  exception.  The 
Comtesse  had  not  appeared.  At  what  hotel  she  was 
staying  he  could  not  say.  But  he  was  obliged  for  the 
coin  unobtrusively  slipped  into  his  hand;  and  he 
thought  that  Monsieur  would  not  find  it  difficult  to 
ascertain  the  Comtesse's  address. 

Newcome  bought  a  paper  with  the  list  of  visitors 
at  the  various  large  hotels.  The  Comtesse's  name 
was  not  there.  But  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris  he  learned 
something  from  a  waiter.  The  Comtesse  de  Silbery 
often  lunched  there.  She  was  a  well-known  character 
at  Monte  Carlo.  She  was  said  to  be  very  rich,  but 
she  did  not  patronize  the  large  hotels.  She  stopped 
at  a  pension,  and  lunched  out  or  dined  out  when  she 
wished. 

Then  Newcome  turned  his  attention  to  the  com- 
paratively few  pensions  of  Monte  Carlo.  He  got  a 
list  of  the  principal  ones,  and,  late  as  it  was,  called 
at  several.  At  the  last  the  Comtesse  had  been  stay- 
ing for  some  rime,  but  had  left  that  very  evening. 
She  had  received  news  which  called  her  away  at 
once,  and,  packing  in  a  hurry,  she  and  her  maid  had 
left  almost  within  the  hour.  The  proprietor  of  the 
pension  knew,  or  pretended  to  know,  nothing  of  her 
movements,  save  that  the  train  by  which  she  had 
departed  went  no  farther  than  Cannes.  Whether  she 
would  go  on  immediately,  or  whether,  indeed,  her 
destination  for  the  present  were  between  Monte  Carlo 
and  Cannes,  he  could  give  no  information. 

Newcome  took  the  last  train  which  left  Monte 
Carlo  that  night  for  Cannes.  His  theory  was  that  the 
Comtesse  would  proceed  to  Marseilles  and  Paris, 


266  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

in  which  latter  place,  it  appeared,  she  lived.  But 
there  was  one  doubt  in  his  mind  which  made  him  fear 
that  after  all  he  was  starting  upon  a  wild-goose  chase. 

Supposing  the  Comtesse  were  but  a  pawn  on 
Macaire's  chessboard  ?  If  he  were  the  man  whom 
Newcome  sought  he  might  be  credited  with  a  hidden 
motive  for  nearly  every  act  of  his  life;  and  though  New- 
come  had  not  thought  of  it  until  he  was  in  the  train, 
it  was  not  impossible  that  Macaire  knew  the  Com- 
tesse, and  had  commissioned  her  to  buy  the  jewel  if 
Dick  Gray  could  be  induced  to  sell  it.  This  would 
have  been  a  way  of  testing  Dick's  integrity,  if  Macaire 
had  any  reason  for  wishing  to  break  it  down;  and 
it  would  be  maddening  if,  after  following  the  woman 
across  half  France,  he  had  to  learn  at  last  that 
the  moonstone  sphinx  had  never  really  been  out  of 
Macaire's  reach. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  go  on,  however, 
and  hope  for  the  best. 

At  the  station  in  Cannes  Newcome  made  inquiries. 
A  lady  answering  the  description  given  had  been  seen 
there,  but  had  already  gone  on  to  Marseilles  by  a 
slow  train. 

Newcome  had  to  wait  with  what  patience  he  could 
muster  until  morning.  Then  the  chase  began  again. 
At  Marseilles  he  could  learn  nothing  of  his  quarry, 
but  he  was  so  sure  now  that  Paris  was  to  be  the  Com- 
tesse's  ultimate  destination  that  he  proceeded  accord- 
ingly. 

At  the  end  of  the  thirteen  hours'  journey  came 
another  night  of  enforced  idleness;  but  next  day  he 
found  out  the  flat  where  the  Comtesse  de  Silbery  lived 
in  a  semi-fashionable  quarter.  He  called  at'  the 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE     267 

house,  only  to  be  told  by  the  concierge  that  Madame 
and  her  maid  had  returned  but  for  half  a  day,  depart- 
ing he  knew  not  where.  They  had  gone  away  in  a 
voiture;  yes,  with  more  luggage  than  they  had  brought 
home;  so  much  the  concierge  divulged,  and  then  ceased 
to  be  communicative,  despite  a  bribe. 

Newcome  resigned  himself  to  more  wasted  hours, 
and  advertised  for  the  driver  of  the  cab  who  had 
called  at  such  and  such  a  house,  on  such  a  date,  to 
take  a  lady  and  her  maid  to  the  station. 

He  had  but  a  day  to  wait,  for  on  the  morning  of 
the  paper's  issue  came  the  answer  he  wanted.  Hav- 
ing learned  the  station  whither  the  Comtesse  had 
been  driven,  it  was  comparatively  simple  to  obtain 
the  information  later  that  she  had  gone  to  Brussels. 

To  Brussels  Newcome  followed,  only  to  lose  the 
scent  and  pick  it  up  again  at  last,  with  the  intelligence 
that,  after  visiting  a  friend,  the  Comtesse  de  Silbery 
had  departed  for  Spa. 

Though  it  was  discouraging  to  chase  a  flitting  will- 
o'-the-wisp,  the  news  that  the  lady  had  chosen  Spa 
was  satisfactory  to  Newcome.  He  saw  in  it  an  indulg- 
ence of  an  overpowering  love  for  the  gambling-tables; 
and  he  told  himself  that  she  had  hurried  away  from 
Monte  Carlo  for  fear  of  losing  her  beloved  fetich,  but 
was  consoling  herself  at  Spa.  If  she  had  acted  in  col- 
lusion with  Macaire  she  need  not  have  fled  from  her 
Mecca  to  a  lesser  Paradise;  and  Newcome  was  inclined 
to  think  that  if  Dick  had  not  hinted  at  the  jewel  having 
been  stolen,  and  the  vexation  for  her  certain  to  ensue, 
all  his  troublesome  journeyings  might  have  been  spared. 

The  season  at  Spa  was  only  just  beginning,  but  one 
could  gamble.  That  was  the  principal  thing. 


268  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Newcome  found  out  at  what  hotel  the  Comtesse 
de  Silbery  was  staying,  and  went  there  also.  But  it 
was  in  the  gambling  rooms  that  he  saw  her  first.  He 
could  not  have  failed  to  recognize  her  from  Dick 
Gray's  description,  for,  as  it  happened,  she  wore  the 
same  poppy-red  dress  she  had  worn  on  the  night  when 
the  moonstone  changed  hands;  and  in  her  dyed 
auburn  hair  were  the  same  diamond  pins  flashing  like 
fire-flies  as  she  moved  her  head.  But  had  these  signs 
failed  he  must  still  have  known  her,  for  on  the  table 
almost  under  her  hand  was  the  sphinx's  head,  close 
to  the  little  pile  of  gold  which  its  magical  influence 
was  to  increase. 

Newcome  stood  close  to  her,  and  risked  a  few  sov- 
ereigns. He  lost  steadily;  she  as  steadily  won.  Being 
too  striking  and  handsome  a  figure  to  pass  unnoticed, 
the  Comtesse  saw  him,  and  pitied  his  bad  luck.  "If 
you  but  had  my  fetich,  Monsieur!"  she  said,  laughing, 
to  show  a  bleak  gleam  of  false  teeth.  "If  you  like,  I 
will  lend  it  to  you.  Now,  try  again." 

Newcome's  hand  thrilled  as  he  touched  the  moon- 
stone. At  that  moment  he  might  have  escaped  with 
it  through  the  crowd  and  she  could  not  have  detained 
him.  But  the  woman  had  trusted  him,  and  meant 
kindness.  He  would  not,  even  in  playing  for  such 
high  stakes  as  governed  the  game  he  played  in  secret, 
have  betrayed  the  trust. 

He  would  have  wished  to  lose,  rather  than  win,  so 
that  the  Comtesse  might  see  her  talisman  was  not  infalli- 
ble, and  value  it  the  less.  Nevertheless,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  he  won;  and  with  thanks  said  that  he 
would  no  longer  rob  the  lady  of  her  fetich.  He  would 
play  no  more  that  night. 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE      269 

Next  evening  he  was  purposely  late  for  dinner,  and, 
seeing  the  Comtesse  at  a  small  table,  he  drew  near, 
as  if  to  be  seated  at  the  next  which  was  available. 
As  he  advanced  their  eyes  met;  she  gave  him  a  half- 
bow,  which  he  answered  so  impressively  that,  with  a 
gesture,  the  elderly  Frenchwoman  beckoned  him  to  her. 
If  he  chose,  he  might  sit  at  her  table.  She  would  explain 
to  him  her  system,  and  if  he  took  her  advice  he  need 
no  longer  throw  his  money  away  as  he  had  done 
last  night. 

"But  Madame  has  the  wisdom  of  the  Sphinx  to 
assist  her,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  he  joyfully  accepted 
the  lady's  invitation. 

This  brought  up  the  subject  of  the  moonstone,  and 
Newcome's  heart  sank  as  every  word  the  Comtesse 
spoke  betrayed  the  fantastic  value  she  set  upon  the 
jewel. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  been  on  friendly  terms 
for  three  days,  dining  together  every  evening,  that 
he  ventured  to  take  advantage  of  the  favor  with  which 
he  was  evidently  regarded.  The  Comtesse,  always 
ready  to  talk  of  the  moonstone,  had  been  drawn  on 
to  tell  him  that  she  had  paid  a  thousand  francs  for 
it  to  a  mad  young  Englishman  at  Monte  Carlo. 

"Fancy  selling  it!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Would  you  not  sell  it,  Comtesse  ? "  Newcome 
questioned. 

She  laughed.     "Try  me." 

"Suppose  I  took  you  in  earnest  and  offered  you 
a  thousand  pounds  instead  of  a  thousand  francs  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  it  ?" 

"Absolutely." 

"No,   then,    my   dear    Baron    von   Zellheim.     Not 


270  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

for  two  thousand  pounds.  Not  for  twice  two  thou- 
sand. For,  you  see,  I  am  fortunate  enough  not  to 
be  in  need  of  money." 

"Is  there  anything  that  you  do  happen  to  be  in 
need  of,  Comtesse  ?  If  there  is  anything  you  want 
that  I  could  get  for  you,  I  will  get  it  —  provided  that 
you  pay  me  with  the  sphinx's  head." 

"I  will  exchange  it  for  the  Koh-i-noor.  Can  you 
get  me  that?" 

"I  might.  But  it  would  take  time.  Will  you  lend 
me  your  talisman?" 

"I  have  never  yet  lent  anything  I  valued,  not  even 
a  book,  until  I  lent  you  the  moonstone  the  other 
night  without  your  even  asking.  I  don't  know  why 
I  did  it,  unless  —  it  was  your  eyes,  I  suppose.  I  am 
of  a  certain  age,  and  I  can  safely  tell  you  that." 

"Will  you  lend  it  to  me  again  —  for  a  few  days?" 

"For  the  tables  you  mean,  as  I  use  it?" 

"No,  Comtesse,  to  carry  away  to  London.  I 
should  be  only  too  pleased  if  you  would  come  too." 

"I  never  knew  so  impudent  a  young  man!"  said 
the  lady.  "Neither  I  nor  my  moonstone  will  go  to 
London." 

"It  is  really  my  moonstone,  if  it  comes  to  that," 
Newcome  said  on  a  sudden  impulse,  speaking  with 
far  more  coolness  than  he  felt. 

The  Comtesse's  face  changed,  and  she  sat  down  her 
champagne  glass  to  stare  at  him.  "Your  moonstone  ?" 
she  did  not  know  but  that  he  led  up  to  some  jest. 

"  Mine    by    inheritance.     It    was    stolen    from  - 
someone  very  near  to  me." 

"  Oh ! "  she  paused  thoughtfully.  "  Then — your  com- 
ing here  —  our  acquaintance  —  is  not  an  accident?" 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  MOONSTONE    271 

"  Comtesse,  you  led  me  a  terrible  dance  —  from 
Monte  Carlo  to  Paris,  from  Paris  to  Brussels,  from 
Brussels  to  Spa." 

"Great  heavens!  You  are  one  of  those  detective 
people!" 

"  If  I  had  been,  I  should  have  found  you  sooner." 

"And  now  that  you  have  found  me,  mon  cher  ami, 
jt  will  do  you  no  good.  Possession  is  nine-tenths  of 
the  law.  You  would  have  to  prove  that  my  moon- 
stone was  your  moonstone.  To  do  that  you  might 
have  difficulty.  And  if  it  were  done,  I  am  still  a 
woman.  I  should  find  some  way  of  evading  the 
law." 

"I  don't  intend  to  appeal  to  the  law.  But  I  think, 
that  because  you  are  '  still  a  woman,'  if  it  be  against 
your  principles  to  lend  me  the  sphinx's  head,  and  you 
will  not  sell,  that  you  will  give  it." 

"I  would  make  a  big  wager  that  nothing  you  could 
say  or  do  would  induce  me  to  give  up  my  fetich  of  my 
own  free  will." 

"What  would  you  wager  —  the  moonstone  itself?" 

"Good  heavens,  what  an  idea!" 

"Yet  if  you  are  so  sure  of  yourself,  why  not 
stake  it?" 

His     handsome     eyes     compelled     hers.     He     was 

twenty-six,  and  she  was  sixty;   but  he  was  a  man,  and 

-  as  she  had  said  —  she  was  "  still  a  woman."     So 

she  laughed   excitedly,   and  the  gambling  spirit  rose 

within  her. 

"Yes,  I  will  wager  the  moonstone  itself.  If  you 
are  clever  enough  to  make  me  want  to  give  it  to  you, 
you  shall  have  it.  But  —  do  you  remember  one  of  the 
tasks  that  Venus  set  for  Psyche  ?  —  how  the  great  piles 


272  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

of  mixed  grain  had  to  be  sorted,  each  kind  to  itself, 
between  sunrise  and  sunset?  You  have  as  hard  a 
task,  and  there  are  no  grateful  ants  to  help  you,  Baron." 

"  There  are  my  own  wits  —  and  there's  your  sense 
of  justice;  your  womanly  sympathy." 

No  one  had  talked  in  this  way  to  the  lady  of  dyes 
and  paints  for  many  a  long  year;  yet  she  listened,  and 
laughed,  and  was  not  displeased;  but  she  knew  that 
she  would  never  give  up  her  talisman. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE 

"AND  how  do  you  propose  to  make  use  of  my 
sense  of  justice  with  your  wits?"  the  Comtesse  de 
Silbery  asked. 

"  By  telling  you  a  story,"  said  Hope  Newcome. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  An  exciting  one,  I  hope,  or  I  shall 
remember  that  in  half  an  hour  it  will  be  my  usual 
time  for  beginning  a  little  game." 

"I  shall  try  to  make  you  forget,"  replied  New- 
come.  "  It  is  exciting  enough  —  at  least,  it  was  to  the 
actors.  For  it  is  a  true  story  that  I  shall  tell  you. 
A  story  of  treachery  and  murder." 

"  Oh !  —  you  are  sensational ! " 

"Real  life  is  sensational.  There  are  true  things 
stranger  than  any  fiction  which  people  would  dare  to 
write.  My  story  begins  a  long  time  ago,  and  I  should 
be  afraid  it  might  bore  you  at  first  were  not  my  heroine 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  who  ever  lived. 
And  the  love  element  of  the  romance  comes  in  early." 

"  Are  you  the  hero,  my  friend  ? " 

"No.  I  am  only  a  walking  gentleman.  But  to 
begin,  or  you'll  be  impatient  for  the  green  baize. 
Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  beautiful  young  actress, 
with  whom  every  man  who  saw  her  fell  in  love.  Her 
name  was  German,  for  her  father  was  a  German 
nobleman  who  had  married  an  Englishwoman  against 

273 


THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

the  wish  of  his  family;  but  she  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  England,  and,  as  her  name  was  so 
foreign  sounding  and  so  long,  her  admirers  made  a 
diminutive  out  of  her  three  initials.  She  was  always 
called  by  them,  and  as  she  grew  famous  they  grew 
famous;  too.  She  had  the  right  to  a  title  of  her  own 
if  she  had  cared  to  use  it,  but  she  did  not,  and  very 
few  people  in  England  knew  much  about  the  German 
family  from  which  she  was  descended. 

"When  she  was  still  quite  a  girl  she  had  a  very 
tempting  offer  to  go  to  America  and  act,  and  the  offer 
was  accepted.  On  the  ship  she  met  a  young  man  on 
his  way  to  California  to  make  his  fortune,  or  rather 
to  improve  it,  for  he  had  about  ten  thousand  pounds 
which  he  had  just  inherited,  and  wanted  to  invest  in 
some  profitable  way.  He  had  had  a  dreadful  mis- 
fortune, shooting  a  friend  by  accident,  and  though  it 
was  more  the  friend's  fault  than  his,  and  he  had  been 
acquitted  of  any  blame  except  carelessness,  he  could 
not  bear  his  old  life,  and  had  determined  to  begin 
again  in  a  new  country. 

"There  you  have  the  hero  and  the  heroine  on  the 
stage  together;  for,  of  course,  the  young  man  fell 
in  love  with  the  actress,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  found  herself  in  love,  too.  He  implored  her 
to  marry  him  and  leave  the  stage,  for  he  thought  his 
ten  thousand  pounds  quite  fortune  enough  to  marry 
upon.  But  the  girl  loved  the  stage,  and  she  had  been 
extravagant,  and  spent  her  money  as  fast  as  she  had 
made  it.  Besides,  she  was  under  a  contract  to  the 
man  who  was  her  manager  for  two  years  more,  and 
was  decidedly  afraid  of  him.  He  had  taught  her  all 
she  knew  about  the  stage,  and  fancied  he  had  a  right 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE    275 

to  order  her  private  as  well  as  professional  life,  since 
her  parents  were  dead  and  she  was  alone  in  the  world. 
This  manager  disapproved  of  actresses  marrying 
while  they  were  in  the  heyday  of  youth  and  success, 
for  he  believed  —  as  most  managers  do  —  that  unmar- 
ried girls  on  the  stage  are  more  of  a  'draw'  than 
when  they  become  matrons. 

"She  had  someone  else  to  be  afraid  of,  too,  poor 
girl,  though  she  did  not  tell  that  to  her  lover.  She 
knew  he  would  laugh  that  fear  to  scorn.  Only  a 
man  she  had  flirted  with  a  little,  because  he  was  so 
horribly  in  earnest  that  he  had  been  amusing  —  a 
Byronic  sort  of  person  with  a  handsome,  fierce  face, 
and  a  deformed  foot.  When  it  came  to  his  insisting 
on  marrying  her  she  had  refused,  and  he  had  sworn 
by  all  his  gods  —  if  he  had  gods  —  to  kill  any  man  she 
ever  dared  to  make  her  husband. 

"Somehow,  the  threats  of  this  saturnine  individ- 
ual, who  had  followed  her  to  England  from  Australia, 
where  she  played  one  year,  had  made  a  very  strong 
impression  on  her  mind,  and  that  impression  revived 
when  she  fell  in  love  with  somebody  else.  Once  in  a 
while  he  sent  her  a  souvenir  of  his  continued  existence; 
and  the  last  packet  she  had  received  from  him  —  a  year 
ago  —  had  been  posted  from  some  place,  the  name 
being  indistinguishable  in  America. 

"So  my  heroine  refused  my  hero,  and  really  thought 
she  would  be  able  to  part  with  him;  but  when  they 
reached  New  York  and  she  found  that  she  couldn't 
keep  him  dangling  about  her,  she  relented.  They 
were  privately  married,  the  secret  not  to  come  out  at 
the  earliest  until  her  contract  with  her  manager  expired 
at  the  end  of  two  years.  After  a  week  or  so  of  stolen 


276  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

meetings  she  sent  him  away,  as  her  love  was  interfering 
with  her  professional  work;  but  they  didn't  expect  their 
separation  to  be  for  long,  as  the  company  of  which  she 
was  the  star  was  slowly  going  West.  Her  destination 
was  to  be  California;  and  when  she  came  near  enough 
they  would  meet  again.  Meanwhile,  they  wrote  to 
each  other. 

"My  hero  didn't  find  any  investment  to  suit  him 
at  first,  so  he  put  his  money  in  a  Californian  bank, 
that  it  might  be  handy  if  he  wanted  it,  and  as  there 
was  a  sensation  about  a  newly  discovered  gold  region, 
he  went  out  there  and  tried  his  luck. 

"But  his  luck  was  not  good.  He  saw  others  round 
him  doing  well,  while  Fortune  kept  a  closed  hand 
for  him.  Months  passed,  and  at  last  a  letter  told 
his  wife  that  he  had  found  exactly  the  right  thing. 
A  man  he  had  met  —  a  splendid  fellow,  very  clever, 
though  eccentric  —  had  bought  land,  and  in  prospect- 
ing had  found  gold.  But  he  hadn't  money  enough 
to  do  anything  with  it,  or  he  would  have  kept  the 
secret  to  himself.  As  it  was,  he  hadn't  told  a  soul, 
except  my  hero,  giving  him  the  chance  of  a  partner- 
ship in  what  would  probably  prove  a  tremendous 
fortune  for  both.  One  was  the  owner  of  the  land, 
the  other  would  be  the  financier;  and  they  would 
share  and  share  alike.  The  fellow  had  shown  my 
hero  some  wonderful  specimens,  and  they  were  already 
chumming  together.  At  the  end  of  the  letter  my  hero 
told  his  wife  the  name  of  his  new  friend.  It  was  that  of 
the  man  who  had  loved  and  threatened  her  in  Australia, 
and  from  whom  she  had  heard  a  year  ago  in  America. 

"Here  was  a  development;  and,  as  you  can  see, 
Comtesse,  the  villain  of  the  piece  is  on  the  stage. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE    277 

"The  poor  girl  was  sick  with  forebodings.  Her 
husband  had  a  miniature  of  her  which  he  always 
wore;  and  he  had  also  a  curious  jewel  which  she  had 
given  him  —  an  heirloom  of  her  family.  It  was  a 
blue  moonstone,  cut  in  the  shape  of  the  sphinx's 
head,  which  had  been  given  to  an  ancestor  of  her 
father's  by  an  Egyptian  princess.  She  had  had  it 
mounted  on  a  small  screw,  with  her  famous  initials 
engraved  on  a  tiny  flat  piece  of  gold,  and  had  made 
it  a  present  to  her  husband  before  they  parted,  'for 
luck." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  Comtesse,  "at  last  you  have 
come  to  the  moonstone." 

She  had  laid  the  sphinx's  head  on  the  table,  and 
had  been  toying  with  it  as  she  listened.  Hope  New- 
come's  eyes  and  hers  were  upon  it  now,  and  the  spirit- 
light  imprisoned  within  the  stone  sent  up  one  of  its 
elusive  gleams,  like  an  eye  answering  their  glances. 

"If  I  believed  in  ghosts  I  should  believe  that  stone 
was  haunted,"  Newcome  said  in  an  odd,  low  voice. 
For  an  instant  he  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  narra- 
tive, but  quickly  he  took  it  up  and  went  on  again. 

"My  heroine  knew  that  the  man  who  had  threat- 
ened her  had  seen  the  moonstone  in  old  days.  Even 
without  the  initials  he  would  have  recognized  it  as 
hers,  for  she  had  said  to  him,  laughingly,  on  the  day 
he  had  seen  it,  that  she  was  keeping  the  talisman  as  a 
wedding-gift  for  her  husband  —  if  she  ever  had  one. 
This  had  been  before  any  stormy  scenes  between 
them,  but  she  believed  that  he  would  not  have  for- 
gotten. 

"Her  only  hope  was  that  the  name  might  be  a 
mere  coincidence,  and  she  wrote  asking  her  husband 


278  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

to  describe  his  new  friend.  But  the  description,  when 
it  came,  brought  no  comfort.  The  man  looked 
rather  like  Byron,  her  husband  answered.  He  had 
a  deformed  foot,  and  the  miners  around  about  called 
him,  in  their  rude  slang,  'Cloven  Hoof.' 

"Quickly  she  wrote  again,  telling  the  whole  story, 
which  she  had  kept  from  her  husband  before,  warn- 
ing him  to  be  careful;  whatever  he  did,  he  must  not 
let  the  other  dream  that  they  were  married,  or  c 
knew  each  other,  if  it  were  not  too  late  for  that.  And 
she  begged  that  in  any  event  the  partnership  might 
be  dissolved.  She  had  a  presentiment  of  evil  to  come. 

"But  many  days   passed,   and   she  got  no  an- 
to  her  letter.     She  could  not  sleep  at  night  for  terrible 
dreams;    and,  at  about  this  time,  another  great  per- 
plexity had  come  to  her.     She  knew  that  she  was  to 
be  a  mother. 

"All  her  anxieties  made  her  ill;  her  tour  had  to 
be  interrupted  in  the  midst,  and  engagements  can- 
celled. Then  one  night  she  had  a  dream  more  horri- 
ble than  any  which  had  tortured  her  before.  She 
dreamed  that  she  saw  the  man  with  the  deformed 
foot  digging  a  grave  for  the  dead  body  of  her  hus- 
band, whom  he  had  murdered,  and  hoped  to  hide 
away  forever,  with  all  traces  of  the  crime. 

"She  told  me  afterward — for  I  heard  this  story 
from  her  own  lips  —  that  she  must  have  been  half 
mad.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing  until 
she  found  herself  in  the  train,  traveling  alone  from 
Chicago  —  where  she  had  been  taken  ill  —  on  the  way 
to  California  and  the  place  where  her  husband  was 
living  with  his  'friend/  Without  a  word  to  anyone 
she  had  stolen  away  in  the  early  dawn.  Had  she  con- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE     279 

fessed  the  truth  to  her  manager,  and  told  him  what  she 
wished  to  do,  he  would  have  tried  to  prevent  her 
from  going  to  her  husband,  and,  in  her  weak  state 
of  health,  would  probably  have  succeeded.  As  it 
was,  he  would  have  followed,  no  doubt,  had  he  guessed 
her  destination;  but  she  left  a  note  which  put  him 
upon  the  wrong  track,  and  not  only  did  she  contrive 
to  disappear  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  mystery  which 
surrounded  her  disappearance  was  never  cleared  up. 
Circumstances  which  came  afterward  made  her  desire 
to  remain  behind  the  veil  she  herself  had  dropped, 
and  it  was  never  lifted. 

"The  nearest  railway  town  to  the  place  my  poor 
heroine  wished  to  reach — we'll  call  it  Caxton;  it's 
very  like  the  real  name  —  was  thirty  miles  away. 
When  she  got  there  the  whole  country  was  aflame 
with  excitement,  and  hardly  had  she  been  five  minutes 
in  the  small,  rough  hotel  when  she  heard  a  strange 
story. 

"It  seemed  that  two  young  men  who  had  come 
out  from  the  East  to  this  part  of  California  had  mys- 
teriously vanished  within  six  or  seven  weeks.  They 
were  both  well  off,  and  had  had  a  good  deal  of  money 
sent  to  them  by  their  friends,  who,  anxious  at  not 
hearing  from  them  for  a  long  time,  caused  inquiries 
to  be  made.  They  were  traced  to  the  neighborhood 
of  Caxton,  but  no  farther.  Matters  had  reached  this 
stage  when  another  man  also  disappeared  —  the  very 
man  whom  the  poor  girl  had  feared  might  murder 
her  husband.  Yet,  judging  from  the  tale  she  was 
told,  her  dream  was  a  contradiction;  for  her  husband 
had  been  arrested,  and  was  now  held  on  suspicion  of 
having  murdered  his  partner. 


280  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"He,  her  lover-husband,  had  been  grievously 
wounded,  lying  unconscious  when  he  was  found;  but 
in  a  pocket  of  his  coat  was  a  diary  which  coolly  recounted 
in  a  cipher,  easily  read  by  experts,  the  details  of  the 
two  murders  already  accomplished,  even  jotting  down 
a  memorandum  of  the  spot  where  the  bodies  of  his 
victims  (the  young  men  who  had  recently  disappeared) 
were  buried. 

"Instantly  the  girl  knew  that  there  had  been  a 
terrible  plot,  but  even  she  could  not  guess  the  whole. 
She  had  given  in  the  office  of  the  hotel  a  common 
name,  calling  herself  'Mrs.  Smith/  or  something  of 
the  sort,  and  her  face,  pale  and  haggard  with  illness, 
anxiety,  and  the  fatigue  of  her  long,  hurried  journey, 
was  not  as  striking  in  its  beauty  as  it  had  been  before. 

"She  said  that  she  was  a  distant  relative  of  the 
suspected  murderer,  who  had  been  brought  to  Caxton 
only  that  morning  to  lie  in  the  infirmary  attached  to 
the  town  jail,  awaiting  his  trial.  She  begged  for  an 
interview  with  the  prisoner,  and  as  there  was  little 
difficulty  in  the  far  West,  in  those  days,  about  grant- 
ing such  a  request  to  a  pretty  woman,  she  obtained 
her  wish. 

"The  poor  fellow  had  been  badly  wounded,  but 
he  was  conscious,  and  was  between  joy  and  sorrow  at 
the  sight  of  his  wife.  They  were  not  allowed  to  see 
each  other  alone,  but  the  thought  that  she  had  come 
to  him  and  loved  him,  believing  him  despite  the  evi- 
dence which  others  accepted  almost  without  question, 
gave  new  strength  and  courage.  He  determined  that 
when  he  had  to  stand  his  trial  for  murder  he  would 
make  a  brave  fight  for  his  life. 

"  But  that  very  night  an  infuriated  mob  who  believed 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE    281 

him  guilty  and  feared  that  he  would  not  be  hanged 
after  all,  broke  open  the  jail,  and  took  the  prisoner 
out  to  lynch  him.  His  wife  heard  the  noise,  and  learned 
what  was  going  on  from  the  landlord's  son,  a  reckless 
fellow  who  was  for  hurrying  out  to  see  the  fun.  She 
had  brought  with  her  on  her  journey  several  thousand 
dollars  which  she  had  saved,  and  she  offered  the  young 
man  half  if  he  would  rescue  the  prisoner  and  help  him 
to  escape.  It  was  a  big  bribe  for  him;  and  by  raising 
an  alarm  that  the  soldiers  were  coming  from  a  military 
garrison  not  many  miles  away,  the  trick  was  done. 
The  mob  was  robbed  of  its  victim,  the  rescuer  let  the 
lady  know  that  her  *  relative'  was  safe,  and  in  a  few 
days  aided  her  to  join  him. 

"But  the  great  excitement  and  exertion  brought 
on  a  relapse,  and  for  weeks  her  husband  lay  at  death's 
door.  They  lived  in  a  rough  cabin,  with  scarcely 
the  necessaries  of  life,  much  less  the  delicacies  needed 
by  an  invalid;  still,  love  and  faithful  nursing  pulled 
him  through  to  a  pale  semblance  of  returning  health. 
And  there  at  that  little  cabin  their  child  was  born  — 
a  son." 

"You  were  the  child!"  exclaimed  the  Comtesse,  all 
her  affectations  forgotten  in  her  interest. 

"Yes,  you  have  guessed  it.  I  was  the  child.  And 
before  I  had  lived  a  year  my  father  was  dead  —  but 
not  before  he  had  told  the  true  story  of  the  ending 
of  that  fatal  partnership  to  my  mother. 

"His  partner  and  he  slept  in  the  same  room,  and 
he  could  hear  the  other  saying  strange  things  in  his 
sleep.  His  suspicions  were  roused  against  the  man 
he  had  believed  in,  and  he  began  to  associate  him  with 
the  mysterious  disappearances  which  were  so  much 


282  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

talked  of  in  the  neighborhood.  The  man  said  some- 
thing in  his  sleep  about  a  'grave  under  the  red  trees/ 
and  my  father  happened  to  know  that  in  a  lonely 
spot  not  far  from  the  mine  which  was  yet  to  be  worked 
there  was  a  group  of  pines  with  peculiarly  red  trunks. 
He  determined  that  he  would  go  to  the  place  one  day 
and  make  a  search. 

"Perhaps  it  would  not  have  occurred  to  him  to 
do  this,  had  he  not  begun  to  fear  that  his  partner  had 
lied  to  him  about  the  gold  discovered  on  his  property. 
Gold  he  had  seen,  but  he  had  reason  to  believe  it  had 
been  brought  from  a  distance  and  placed  where  he  had 
seen  if  for  the  purpose  of  tricking  him  into  putting 
down  his  money.  But  it  was  not  yet  too  late  to  dis- 
solve the  partnership. 

"One  day  'Cloven  Hoof  went  away,  and  my 
father  took  advantage  of  his  absence  to  pay  a  visit 
to  the  red  trees.  Close  by  there  was  a  cave,  and  in 
a  hole  in  the  cave,  under  a  great  bank  of  sand  and 
debris,  he  found  not  one  body,  but  two.  The  skulls 
had  been  broken  in  behind  with  some  heavy,  sharp 
instrument,  like  an  ax,  and  the  bodies  had  been  huddled 
into  the  hole  dressed  exactly  as  they  had  died.  Their 
blood-stained  clothes  had  not  moldered  away  like  their 
flesh.  Probably  the  murderer's  courage  had  failed 
him  before  emptying  his  victims'  pockets,  or  else  he  had 
felt  so  certain  the  bodies  would  not  be  discovered  that 
he  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  do  more  than  hide 
them;  for  (determined  to  be  sure  that  the  accusation 
he  meant  to  make  was  well  founded)  my  father  searched 
the  pockets  of  the  dead  men's  coats.  It  must  have 
been  a  grim  task,  but  it  was  rewarded  by  the  finding 
of  letters  from  the  murderer  upon  one  of  the  bodies, 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  MOONSTONE    283 

proving  beyond  doubt  that  he  had  been  the  man  to  lure 
the  young  stranger  from  the  East  to  his  doom.  Just 
such  promises  as  the  fiend  had  held  out  to  my  father 
had  he  given  to  his  predecessor. 

"My  father  took  the  letters  and  thrust  them  deep 
into  a  pocket  of  his  own  coat.  Then  he  went  back  to 
the  house,  where  he  meant  to  confront  the  murderer 
with  his  knowledge  of  the  double  crime.  But  his 
partner's  journey  had  been  a  pretense.  The  wretch 
had  only  gone  a  short  distance,  meaning  to  return 
unexpectedly,  and,  taking  my  father  unawares,  kill 
him  as  he  had  killed  the  others.  Afterwards  my 
mother  found  that  all  my  father's  money  had  been 
withdrawn  from  his  bank  by  means  of  a  forged  letter; 
and  this  having  been  accomplished,  the  sooner  he  was 
out  of  the  way  the  better.  No  doubt  the  murderer 
meant  this  to  be  his  last  crime,  and  intended  in  any 
event  to  fly  with  the  spoils,  throwing  suspicion  on  his 
latest  victim. 

"As  my  father  was  walking  back  to  the  house, 
someone  leaped  at  him  from  behind,  but  he  sprang 
aside  in  time  to  avoid  the  full  force  of  the  blow.  He 
told  my  mother  that  somehow  he  felt  no  surprise  at 
sight  of  his  partner,  with  the  lust  of  murder  in  his 
eyes,  and  they  fought  together  a  desperate  fight,  each 
man  for  his  life. 

"Once  my  father  got  his  enemy  down,  and  panted 
out  what  he  had  learned;  but  the  rfiend  wriggled  him- 
self free,  and  struck  my  father  with  a  knife,  which 
pierced  his  breast,  touching  the  lungs.  It  was  this 
wound  that  finally  resulted  in  his  death. 

"While  he  was  unconscious  his  enemy  must  have 
placed  in  his  pocket  the  diary  in  cipher,  which  had 


284  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

evidently  been  prepared  expressly  for  the  purpose. 
My  father  knew  that  he  had  wounded  his  would-be 
murderer,  nevertheless,  the  wretch  escaped;  and  it  was 
supposed  that  my  father  had  killed  him  and  hidden 
the  body  before  falling  down  in  a  faint  induced  by 
his  own  wound. 

"As  for  the  letters,  which  must  have  shown  con- 
clusively who  was  guilty,  they  had  disappeared  —  my 
father  and  mother  believed  that  they  had  been  stolen 
by  the  murderer.  The  moonstone  sphinx  and  my 
mother's  miniature  were  also  missing,  and  it  was  not 
difficult  to  guess  where  they  had  gone,  though  the 
treacherous  brute  had  no  means  of  knowing  what  his 
victim  had  really  been  to  the  girl  they  both  loved. 

"The  letters  being  lost  and  the  murderer  gone, 
there  was  no  absolute  proof  that  my  father  had  not 
committed  the  crimes  of  which  he  had  been  accused ; 
and  my  mother  begged  that  he  would  remain  with  her, 
hidden  and  safe,  while  he  lived.  Such  an  existence  must 
have  proved  impossible  for  a  man  of  spirit,  had  he  not 
died  within  a  year;  but  I  think  that,  in  spite  of  all,  they 
most  have  known  some  hours  of  happiness  together. 

"When  he  was  gone  my  mother  lived  only  for  me, 
and  the  hope  —  not  ideally  Christian,  but  natural 
—  that  one  day  I  should  seek  out  the  man  who  had 
robbed  and  lolled  her  husband,  and  avenge  their 
wrongs.  While  I  was  a  boy  I  was  left  in  ignorance 
of  her  sorrows,  and  we  lived  somehow  on  the  little 
money  she  had  left.  But  when  I  had  grown  to  be  a 
man  she  sent  for  me  one  day  (we  had  moved  from 
California  to  Kentucky  by  this  rime),  and  I  found 
her  pale  and  quivering  with  passionate  excitement. 
She  had  made  an  astonishing  discovery." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  WINNING  OF  THE  WAGER 

"THE  moonstone  sphinx!"  broke  in  the  Comtesse. 

"  No,"  Hope  Newcome  answered,  "  the  letters  which 
my  father  had  taken  from  the  body  of  the  murdered 
man.  All  these  years  she  had  kept  the  coat  he  had 
worn  in  jail  and  when  he  escaped,  for  it  was  stained 
with  his  blood.  And  sometimes  she  took  it  out  and 
wept  over  it,  recalling  the  past.  The  letters  had  not, 
after  all,  been  stolen  by  the  murderer.  He  could  not 
even  have  seen  them,  for  when  my  father  thrust  them 
deeply  into  his  pocket  they  had  been  pushed  down 
between  the  coat  and  the  lining,  which  was  ripped  — 
not  torn;  and  somehow  the  opening  and  the  letters 
had  remained  undiscovered  till  that  day. 

"It  was  then  my  mother  told  me  the  story,  and 
made  me  promise  that  I  would  give  my  whole  life  to 
tracking  down  the  murderer,  if  he  still  lived. 

"She  believed  that  he  would  be  found  in  England 
under  an  assumed  name,  and  that  with  the  money 
he  had  stolen  from  his  three  victims  he  would  have 
made  himself  rich.  Long  ago,  when  they  had  known 
each  other  in  Australia,  he  had  told  her  that  his  great 
ambition  was  to  be  a  millionaire  and  spend  his  money 
in  London  — the  'capital  of  the  world,'  he  had  called 
it.  My  mother  was  certain  that  he  had  realized  his 
ambition,  and  now  that  I  was  armed  with  the  letters 

285 


2$6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

I  should  be  able  even  at  that  late  date  to  bring  him 

O 

to  justice  —  if  I  could  find  him.  I  was  to  know  him 
by  the  description  she  gave,  and  above  all  by  his 
deformed  foot;  for  whatever  else  was  changed  by  time 
that  could  not  change.  And  she  was  certain  also  that 
he  would  have  kept  the  sphinx's  head. 

"But  to  find  him  was  the  great  task,  and  to  do  so 
I  must  live  in  the  world  of  rich  people.  I  must  get 
money  enough  to  live  upon,  so  that  I  should  have  my 
time  to  myself  for  the  search. 

"When  my  mother  told  me  this  story  of  the  past 
she  was  already  an  invalid.  She  would  have  no  nurse 
but  me,  even  had  we  been  able  to  afford  it.  She  suf- 
fered continually,  and  could  not  be  left  alone  for  long, 
so  that  my  ways  of  earning  a  living  were  precarious. 
A  few  months  after  she  died  I  took  the  first  step  toward 
keeping  my  promise  to  her.  I  sailed  for  England  — 
a  steerage  passenger.  Exactly  what  my  life  was  after 
that  adds  no  interest  to  my  tale,  but  it  had  its  ups  and 
downs,  mostly  downs,  until  a  fortunate  whim  of  fate 
tossed  into  my  hands  what  once  would  have  seemed 
to  me  a  great  fortune.  I  made  a  queer  bargain,  with 
a  clause  at  the  end  of  it  which  was  left  vague;  but  I 
was  ready  to  do  almost  anything,  not  dishonorable, 
for  money. 

"Only  for  one  brief  interval  of  madness  did  I  lose 
sight  of  my  object;  but,  though  I  thought  of  nothing 
else,  worked  for  nothing  else,  I  never  seemed  to  be 
nearer  to  my  goal.  Often  I  followed  false  clues; 
they  always  led  me  back  again  to  the  starting  place, 
until  one  day  I  met  a  shabby  fellow  in  the  street  who 
begged  of  me  with  an  American  accent.  He  was 
near  the  house  of  a  rich  man  whom  I  knew  very  well, 


THE  WINNING  OF  THE  WAGER       287 

and  he  had  been  there,  hoping  to  see  the  millionaire, 
whom  he  stated  that  he  had  known  long  ago;  but  as 
the  master  was  abroad,  he  was  turned  away  by  the  serv- 
ants, who  refused  to  believe  in  the  alleged  friendship. 

"I  gave  the  fellow  something,  more  because  he 
was  an  American  than  for  any  other  reason,  but  a 
few  words  let  carelessly  drop  interested  me  for  another 
more  selfish  one.  I  stood  him  a  dinner,  with  a  little 
good  wine,  and  he  poured  out  confidences.  He  had 
lived  in  the  Western  states,  and  had  owned  a  piece 
of  land  thirty  years  ago  with  several  houses  upon  it. 
One  of  these  houses  was  unlet  and  had  stood  empty 
for  some  time,  when  it  began  to  have  the  reputation  of 
being  haunted.  People  in  the  neighborhood  heard 
queer  chattering  noises  at  night,  and  were  afraid  to 
go  near  the  place.  But  the  owner  was  not  afraid.  He 
went  in  and  found  a  terrible  wreck  of  manhood  there  — 
a  poor  wretch  with  his  face  so  burned  with  vitriol  that 
it  was  more  like  raw  meat  than  a  face;  and,  still  more 
horrible,  he  lacked  a  foot,  which  had  been  lately  ampu- 
tated, literally  hacked  off,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  an 
amateur. 

"The  sufferer  was  raving  with  fever,  and  almost 
dead.  How  long  he  had  been  there  or  how  he  came, 
the  owner  of  the  house  could  not  tell,  but  he  was 
more  than  half  starved,  and  in  his  delirium  said 
strange  things  —  strangest  of  all,  that  he  had  deliber- 
ately worked  the  evil  upon  himself  for  motives  untold. 
He  was  tended  and  cared  for  as  well  as  possible  in 
that  lonely  neighborhood,  where  there  was  not  a  doctor 
within  thirty  miles;  and  a  marvelous  constitution  pulled 
him  through,  horribly  disfigured  and  lame  though  he 
must  be  to  the  end  of  his  days. 


288  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"When  he  was  able  to  speak  coherently  he  told 
a  story  of  a  fire  in  the  nearest  town,  in  which  he  had 
all  but  lost  his  life,  saying  that,  as  the  foot  was  nearly 
burnt  off,  he  had  himself  cut  bone  and  flesh  away, 
lest  mortification  should  set  in.  After  that  he  pro- 
fessed to  have  no  recollection  of  anything  which  hap- 
pened; and  as  he  had  plenty  of  money  in  a  belt  he 
wore  next  to  his  skin,  the  owner  of  the  house  was 
not  too  pressing  in  his  curiosity.  He  was  well  paid 
for  his  care,  and  it  was  not  until  after  his  mysterious 
guest  had  vanished  as  unexpectedly  as  he  had  come 
that  he  found  out  there  had  been  no  fire  of  importance 
in  the  town  mentioned  for  many  months. 

"Years  passed  on,  and  brought  troubles  to  my 
American  friend.  He  lost  his  money  and  had  various 
mishaps,  finally  going  to  South  Africa.  There  he 
heard  of  the  great  millionaire  with  the  scarred  face 
and  hobbling  limp,  which  his  intimates  whispered  was 
caused  by  wearing  an  artificial  foot.  At  that  time 
the  millionaire  in  question  was  in  Kimberley,  visiting 
Mr.  Rhodes.  The  American  tramped  there,  only 
just  in  time  to  see  the  man  getting  into  the  train  at 
the  railway  station.  But  he  recognized  the  hideous 
face,  and  was  bitterly  disappointed  at  losing  the 
chance  of  claiming  help  as  a  reward  for  what  he  had 
done  in  the  past. 

"Somehow  he  managed,  after  a  few  months  more, 
to  get  to  England,  and  determined  to  make  a  good 
sum  out  of  his  former  services,  perhaps  get  a  start  in 
business.  But  he  only  arrived  to  find  his  quarry  had 
slipped  away  again. 

"You  can  imagine,  Comtesse,  that  this  story  set 
me  thinking.  If  a  man  had  the  fearful  courage  to 


THE  WINNING  OF  THE  WAGER       289 

disfigure  himself  in  a  way  so  horrible,  so  painful,  it 
could  only  have  been  because  he  must  choose  between 
losing  his  identity  or  his  life.  Such  grim  pluck,  such 
iron  self-control  might  almost  win  admiration,  were 
it  not  the  desperation  of  a  moral  coward,  ready  to 
sacrifice  all  that  makes  existence  precious  for  the  sake 
of  the  bare  chance  of  escaping  death. 

"Needless  to  tell  you  that  I  have  the  American 
where  I  can  put  my  hand  upon  him  when  I  want 
him.  When  I  had  arranged  this,  I  followed  the  mil- 
lionaire, with  whom  I  had  actually  been  on  terms 
of  friendship,  feeling  as  if  I  had  dreamed  the  months 
of  intimacy  with  him,  months  which  I  had  wasted  in 
vain  search,  my  eyes  everywhere  save  on  the  one 
man  who  should  have  held  them. 

"Fate  had  already  played  me  some  strange  tricks, 
but  none  stranger  than  that  which  put  me  on  the 
track  of  the  moonstone  sphinx,  in  the  very  moment 
of  reaching  the  end  of  my  journey.  He  had  had  it 
for  years,  and  the  clue  seemed  complete;  but  the  moon- 
stone was  gone  out  of  his  possession  for  the  first  time. 
I  could  neither  hope  to  find  it  with  him  nor  to  obtain  it 
myself,  and  confront  him  with  it  in  the  hour  of  his 
downfall,  unless 

"Unless  I  give  it  back  to  you!"  exclaimed  the 
Comtesse. 

"Exactly.  Or  even  lend  it.  What  I  want  is  to 
hear  him  claim  it  as  his  own." 

Her  answer  was  to  snatch  up  the  stone  from  the 
table  and  impulsively  place  it  in  Newcome's  hand. 
"It  is  yours,  as  it  has  always  been.  You  have  won 
your  wager,  and  I  pay  my  debt." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   PRICE   SHE  WAS  TO  PAY 

WINIFRED  GRAY  did  not  deceive  herself.  She 
knew  what  she  was  doing  in  going  alone  to  the  house 
of  Lionel  Macaire.  She  knew  what  his  reputation 
was;  she  knew  how,  since  she  had  shown  the  loathing 
she  felt  for  him  and  his  insults,  he  had  built  up,  stone 
by  stone,  his  scheme  of  revenge. 

Sometimes  a  stone  had  fallen  with  the  dull  ring 
of  failure  for  him;  but  he  had  set  it  up  again  with 
another  piled  upon  it;  and  when  she  went  to  keep 
the  appointment  at  his  house,  the  shameful  structure 
he  had  planned  would  be  complete. 

Still,  if  she  hesitated  in  telegraphing  her  reply  to 
Dick's  imploring  letter,  it  was  not  for  long.  Poor, 
foolish  Dick!  he  had  been  but  a  catspaw  from  the 
first,  as  she  had  warned  him;  yet  she  would  not  remind 
him  now  of  that  warning.  She  would  save  him, 
and  if  she  could  not  save  herself  when  the  time  came, 
she  must  die. 

To  those  who  did  not  know  of  the  silent  battle  waged 
for  so  many  months  it  would  seem  a  small,  almost 
absurdly  small,  sacrifice  to  make,  that  she  should 
dine  at  the  house  of  a  man  whom  she  disliked,  when 
by  doing  so  she  could  keep  her  brother  from  going  to 
prison  and  spare  her  invalid  mother  a  blow  which 
might  crush  out  her  life. 

290 


THE  PRICE  SHE  WAS  TO  PAY        291 

But  Winifred  knew,  when  she  made  the  promise, 
that  it  meant  far  more  than  a  dinner  at  a  house  where 
she  would  have  preferred  not  to  go. 

If  Hope  Newcome  had  been  to  her  the  man  she 
had  once  thought  him,  she  would  have  hesitated 
longer  before  sacrificing  her  reputation  to  save  her 
brother  from  prison.  She  would  have  belonged  to 
her  lover,  and  would  have  had  no  right  to  put  Dick 
before  him.  But  the  girl  believed  that  she  had  done 
forever  with  love  and  lovers.  Since  the  only  man 
to  whom  she  had  given  her  heart  had  been  able  to 
hide  his  baseness  with  seeming  nobility,  Winifred 
had  lost  faith  in  all  men,  and  told  herself  that  she 
hated  everyone.  Except  for  her  mother,  it  mattered 
little  enough  what  became  of  the  rest  of  her  spoiled  life. 

She  did  not  sleep  much  before  the  night  when  she 
would  be  called  upon  to  keep  her  promise.  The 
thought  of  what  she  must  do  was  like  a  waking  night- 
mare. It  was  always  before  her,  whether  her  eyes 
were  closed  or  open.  Her  imagination  conjured  up 
a  hundred  different  methods  by  which  Macaire  might 
seek  to  entrap  her;  and  the  hours  she  should  have 
slept  were  spent  in  striving  to  think  how,  while  she 
kept  her  word  to  the  letter,  she  might  still  contrive 
to  thwart  the  ultimate  design  which  she  suspected. 

Winifred  did  not  tell  her  mother  of  the  trouble 
which  had  befallen  Dick  nor  of  her  promise  to  Macaire. 
If  all  were  well,  Mrs.  Gray  never  need  know;  if  not, 
there  was  time  enough  for  her  to  be  made  unhappy. 

As  the  girl  went  out  every  evening  soon  after  seven 
to  keep  her  nightly  engagement  at  the  Salisbury,  her 
mother  would  believe  that  she  was  absent  upon  her 
usual  errand.  It  would  only  be  necessary  to  say,  "I 


292  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

shall  be  later  than  usual"  —  for  the  dinner  was  to  be 
at  nine  —  and  Winifred,  after  keeping  her  hateful 
bargain  to  the  letter,  to  reach  home  before  midnight. 
Only  there  was  such  terrible  indefiniteness  in  her 
hope.  She  did  not  know  what  danger  she  might  be 
going  to  meet  at  Macaire's  house,  and  unless  Dick 
were  there  she  would  have  no  one  to  protect  her. 

At  half-past  seven  she  left  the  dismal  lodging- 
house  which  was  "home"  now.  She  had  kissed  her 
mother  even  more  tenderly  than  her  wont,  and  clung 
to  the  little  frail  woman  yearningly  for  a  moment, 
that  was  all;  and  Mrs.  Gray  suspected  nothing.  Win- 
ifred had  made  her  promise  not  to  sit  up,  as  she  must 
be  late,  but  the  girl  knew  that  her  mother  would 
not  sleep  until  she  was  safely  back  again.  "Safely 
back  again!"  how  much  there  was  in  those  simple 
words!  What  would  be  her  thoughts  when  she 
returned  to  the  dull  little  rooms,  which  appeared  desir- 
able in  her  eyes  to-night  for  the  first  time  ?  What 
would  the  next  five  hours  hold  of  fear  and  humilia- 
tion for  her  ? 

Winifred  put  on  a  very  simple  evening  dress,  which 
she  covered  with  a  long  cloak  even  from  her  mother's 
eyes;  for  she  was  in  the  habit  of  walking  to  the  Salisbury 
in  a  coat  and  short  dark  skirt.  Her  "turn"  was  one 
of  the  first  on  the  long  programme,  a  position  not 
considered  desirable  by  the  artistes,  since  the  nearer 
their  names  to  the  middle  the  more  unmistakable 
the  hall-mark  of  their  importance;  but  on  this  particular 
night  it  was  convenient  for  Winifred  to  finish  early. 

By  half-past  eight  she  had  sung  her  song  and  satis- 
fied the  audience  with  a  couple  of  encores.  There 
was  just  time  to  change  her  stage  dress  for  the  evening 


THE  PRICE  SHE  WAS  TO  PAY        293 

gown  she  had  worn,  and  drive  to  Park  Lane;  and 
as  the  hour  drew  near  the  girl's  heart  grew  cold  as 
ice.  She  dared  not  be  late,  she  dared  not  wish  that 
some  accident  might  delay  or  prevent  her  going,  lest 
Dick  should  be  made  to  suffer. 

She  dressed  with  speed,  and  at  twenty  minutes  to 
nine  she  was  in  a  hansom  on  her  way  to  Park  Lane. 
How  sickeningly  her  pulses  beat  as  the  cab  drove  into 
the  courtyard  and  stopped  before  the  great  brilliantly 
lighted  house!  Her  knees  trembled,  and  she  almost 
fell  as  she  stepped  down  to  the  pavement.  The  huge 
doors  looked  to  her  like  the  doors  of  a  prison.  If 
only  Dick  had  written  —  if  only  she  found  Dick  inside ! 
But  there  had  been  no  word  from  him  save  a  few 
lines  of  thanks  after  receiving  her  telegram. 

She  paid  the  cabman,  and  then  —  slowly  in  spite  of 
herself  —  moved  toward  the  door,  which  she  feared 
might  open  before  her  knock.  The  hansom  was 
driving  away;  it  was  all  that  she  could  do  not  to  call 
after  it  and  tell  the  man  to  stop  —  she  had  changed 
her  mind,  and  would  go  back. 

As  her  eyes  wistfully  followed  him  a  voice  spoke, 
almost  in  her  ear.  "Winnie!  I've  been  waiting  for 
you  this  last  half-hour." 

"Dick!"   she  thankfully  exclaimed. 

"Yes.  We've  only  a  minute  to  speak  together. 
I  can't  go  in  —  I'm  not  wanted  inside  that  house  any 
more,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  there,  heaven  knows, 
except  for  you.  But  I  had  to  see  you.  Lucky  for  us 
your  cab  had  rubber  tires  and  didn't  make  much 
noise,  or  the  door  would  be  open  now,  and  you  going 
in.  I  couldn't  have  got  a  word.  Look  here,  Winnie, 
I  am  beginning  to  be  afraid  you  were  right  about 


294  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Macaire.  He  certainly  is  a  villain  —  bad  enough  for 
anything,  and  the  more  I've  thought  of  it  the  more 
I  believe  he  did  lay  the  trap  to  get  us  both  to  fall 
into  it." 

"I've  never  doubted  that  for  an  instant,"  said  the  girl. 

"Yet  you're  here,  Winnie.  I'm  a  brute  to  let  you 
come,  but  I  didn't  see  it  this  way  at  first,  when  I  wrote 
begging  you  to  consent.  And  how  could  I  go  to  prison  ? 
For  mother's  sake,  how  could  I  go  ?  I  was  sure  I 
should  be  on  hand  to  look  after  you  and  see  that  you 
came  to  no  harm,  so  I  let  things  slide  when  I  began  to 
realize  that  Macaire  meant  worse  mischief.  But  I've 
been  turned  from  the  house,  and  told  that  if  I  tried 
to  force  my  way  in  I  should  be  pitched  out  by  the  foot- 
men. I  pretended  to  go,  but  I  sneaked  back  here  to 
wait  for  you,  and  give  you  a  word  of  warning.  I  would 
say,  don't  go  in  after  all,  no  matter  what  happened  to 
me- 

"You  needn't,  Dick,"  Winifred  broke  in.  "Noth- 
ing that  you  tell  me  comes  as  a  surprise.  I  shall  go 
in  and  keep  my  word.  It  would  not  be  true  to  say 
I  am  not  afraid  of  Lionel  Macaire,  for  I  am  —  hor- 
ribly afraid.  And  I  hate  him,  and  shudder  at  him. 
But  I  do  believe  that  God  will  protect  me  from  him, 
as  He  has  before." 

"  If  ever  a  girl  deserved  such  protection,  it's  you,"  cried 
Dick,  "  for  you've  been  an  angel  to  me  —  and  I  a  devil 
to  you.  But  listen;  I  was  going  to  say  that  I'd  tell 
you  not  to  go  in  in  spite  of  everything,  if  it  weren't 
for  von  Zellheim.  He'll  be  here  at  Macaire's  to-night. 
I  know  that." 

"Baron  von  Zellheim?"  repeated  Winifred  bitterly, 
giving  her  lost  lover  the  full  title  which  he  had  claimed. 


THE  PRICE  SHE  WAS  TO  PAY        295 

"What  help  can  his  presence  give  me  ?  It  only  makes 
it  all  a  thousand  times  worse,  that  he  should  see  me 
here  in  the  house  of  the  man  he  was  bribed  to  aid,  in 
hunting  me  down." 

"Winifred,  I  swear  to  you  that  von  Zellheim  never 
did  that,"  Dick  asserted.  "You  must  trust  him.  He's 
true  as  steel." 

"So  you  once  said  of  his  master,"  retorted  the  girl, 
stung  to  desperation.  "Oh,  if  this  is  all  you  have 
to  tell  me,  let  me  go  and  get  this  horrible  night  over 
quickly  —  however  it  is  to  end." 

Dick  caught  her  arm  and  held  her  back,  when  she 
would  have  fled  up  the  three  marble  steps  that  led 
to  the  door  of  old  green  bronze.  "You  must  hear 
me!"  he  ejaculated.  "It  was  all  my  fault  that  you 
distrusted  von  Zellheim.  I'll  stake  my  life  he'd  have 
killed  Macaire  rather  than  be  his  friend,  if  he'd  guessed 
what  a  villain  he  was.  He  didn't  even  know  that  you 
and  Macaire  were  more  than  the  merest  acquaint- 
ances —  I'd  swear  that.  If  you  had  seen  him,  half  a 
dozen  words  of  explanation  would  have  made  every- 
thing right.  But  you  refused  —  he  couldn't  understand 
why,  or  what  he  had  done  to  offend  you,  and  he  was 
half  mad.  He's  been  a  changed  man  since  —  older  and 
graver  in  his  ways.  If  I'd  chosen  I  could  have  brought 
a  reconciliation  about,  but  I  didn't  want  von  Zellheim 
to  know  what  you  thought  of  Macaire.  If  he  did 
know,  I  was  certain  there  would  be  no  end  of  a  row, 
and  I'd  lose  my  chance  as  secretary.  I  couldn't  give 
that  up.  And  I  was  so  sure,  you  see,  that  you  were 
mistaken  about  Macaire." 

"To  keep  your  place  you  let  me  insult  the  man  I 
loved!"  cried  Winifred.  "You  let  me  break  my 


296  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

heart;  you  spoiled  my  life.  Yet  you  are  not  ashamed 
to  call  on  me  to  save  you." 

"For  God's  sake,  Winnie,  don't  look  at  me,  don't 
speak  to  me  like  that!  I  am  ashamed  —  I'm  in  the 
dust  with  shame.  And  I  didn't  dream  you  cared  for 
von  Zellheim  except  as  a  friend.  If  I  had  —  I  hope 
I'd  have  been  decent  enough  to  do  differently.  But 
it's  too  late  for  that  now.  And  I  see  I've  ruined 
myself  with  you.  Do  as  you  like.  Don't  go  into  the 
house.  I'll  run  away  —  be  off  somewhere,  I  don't 
know  where,  and  escape  from  that  fiend's  anger  when 
he  finds  that  he's  been  tricked." 

"No.  You  couldn't  escape.  I  will  go  in  —  heaven 
help  me!"  said  Winifred,  with  a  breaking  voice. 

"You  will?  God  bless  you,  then.  But  —  some- 
time, before  long,  I  hope,  von  Zellheim  will  be  here. 
He  doesn't  know  that  you  are  to  be  in  the  house; 
but  he  wrote,  sending  me  his  address,  and  I  wired, 
telling  him  that  he  must  come  if  he  would  save  me 
from  shame.  Already  he  has  been  helping  me  —  and 
he  will  be  here  to-night  without  fail.  I  am  as  sure 
of  it  as  if  I  had  his  promise.  You'll  trust  him  now, 
Winnie,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  have  accused  him  falsely  he  will  never  forgive 
me,"  said  the  girl  hopelessly.  And  then,  without 
another  word  to  her  brother,  she  went  up  the  steps, 
and  lifted  the  mailed  glove  which  formed  a  knocker. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

NERO'S    DINNER   PARTY 

INSTANTLY  the  doors  flew  open.  Winifred  saw 
a  great  hall,  blazing  with  lights,  which  dazzled  her 
eyes  after  the  darkness.  A  footman  in  purple  and 
gold  livery  showed  her  to  a  corridor,  branching  off 
the  main  hall,  and  there  she  was  met  by  a  maid,  who 
took  her  into  a  room  which  at  first  glance  seemed 
walled  with  mirrors.  Everywhere  Winifred  saw  her 
own  reflection  —  a  slim  little  figure  in  a  plain,  long 
gray  cloak,  looking  strangely  incongruous  against  a 
background  of  such  magnificence. 

The  maid  helped  to  remove  the  cloak,  and  Win- 
ifred was  thankful  to  see  a  collection  of  exquisite 
wraps  belonging  to  other  women.  One  of  her  fears 
had  been  either  that  she  was  to  dine  with  Macaire 
alone,  or  that  she  would  find  herself  the  only  woman 
among  a  crowd  of  men  in  the  fast,  reckless  set  which 
Macaire  was  said  to  lead.  Courage  came  back  to 
her  at  sight  of  those  dainty  evening  wraps,  which 
suggested  the  inner  heart  of  Paris. 

She  left  the  mirrored  dressing-room,  and  gave  her- 
self again  to  a  footmen's  guidance.  Never  had 
Winifred  seen  so  marvelous  a  house,  but  she  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  admiration  or  surprise.  Her 
nerves  were  tensely  keyed  for  what  might  be 
coming. 

297 


298  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

"What  name?"  inquired  the  big  footman,  with  a 
veiled  glitter  of  impertinence  under  supercilious  lids. 

"  Miss  Winifred  Gray,"  the  girl  answered  mechan- 
ically, and  then  wished  that  she  had  refused  to  give 
any  name  at  all. 

A  door  was  thrown  open,  and -a  chatter  of  voices 
suddenly  buzzed  in  her  ears.  They  were  not  sweet, 
gently  modulated  voices,  but  loud  and  vulgar  in  every 
note,  though  they  were  the  accents  of  women. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lilies,  almost 
deadly  in  their  keen  sweetness.  The  room,  which 
was  all  white  and  gold  and  palest  pink,  was  decorated 
in  the  style  of  Louis  Quatorz,  and  Winifred  remem- 
bered how  she  had  heard  that  each  room  in  Macaire's 
town  house  was  furnished  after  the  fashion  of  a 
different  nation  and  period. 

Before  her  mind  had  had  time  to  receive  any  other 
definite  impression,  save  that  there  were  a  number 
of  men  and  women  in  the  room,  the  latter  gorgeously 
dressed  and  blazing  with  diamonds,  Macaire  himself 
came  forward,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"We've  been  waiting  for  you."  he  said.  "I'd 
begun  to  be  afraid  that  you  weren't  coming  after  all." 
And  this  sentence  he  spoke  with  meaning. 

"I  had  promised,  and  I  never  break  my  word," 
answered  Winifred  haughtily,  trying  in  vain  to  avoid 
his  hand,  which  pounced  upon  and  imprisoned  hers 
like  a  hawk  seizing  a  dove.  "  But  you  need  not  have 
waited  for  me." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Macaire,  "not  wait  for  the 
guest  of  the  evening  ?  Perhaps  you  didn't  realize 
that  this  little  dinner  is  being  given  in  your  honor. 
I've  invited  friends  who  have  been  especially  anxious 


NERO'S  DINNER  PARTY  299 

to  meet  you  ever  since  last  Decemoer,  when  you  were 
playing  Mazeppa." 

"I  never  did  play  Mazeppa/'  Winifred  answered 
him  in  a  clear,  distinct  voice,  that  could  be  heard  at 
the  other  end  of  the  large  room. 

"  Didn't  you  ?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought 
you  did.  But  that  is  a  detail,  isn't  it,  since  you're 
here  to-night  ?  And  that  our  dinner  may  be  no 
formal,  conventional  affair,  like  those  of  ordinary 
society  that  doesn't  know  how  to  enjoy  itself,  I  want 
to  introduce  you  and  my  other  friends  who've  come 
especially  to  meet  you,  to  each  other." 

Still  holding  her  hand  so  tightly  that  she  could 
not  wrench  it  away,  Macaire  led  her  further  into  the 
room,  nearer  to  the  group  of  men  and  women,  who 
had  stopped  in  their  conversation  to  listen  and  look  at 
the  newcomer. 

The  men  were  already  on  their  feet,  but  the  women 
remained  seated.  Four  or  five  painted  faces,  under 
hair  bleached  golden  or  dyed  to  the  sheen  of  copper, 
stared  up  at  her  with  bold,  laughing  eyes.  Winifred 
shrank  back  with  a  horrified  catching  of  her  breath. 
She  was  an  innocent  girl,  who  had  known  little  of  the 
world  until  she  began  to  earn  her  living  on  the  stage, 
but  instinct  rather  than  knowledge  told  her  with  one 
blinding  flash  of  enlightenment  what  these  women 
were  whom  Lionel  Macaire  had  asked  her  to  meet. 

Some  of  the  men  she  had  seen  before,  though  not 
to  one  had  she  ever  spoken.  There  was  a  French- 
man with  royal  blood  in  his  veins;  there  was  a  great 
city  magnate;  there  was  a  young  English  earl  who 
had  lately  been  made  bankrupt;  there  was  a  man 
better  known  on  the  race-course  than  in  drawing-rooms. 


300  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

A  word  from  Macaire  to  the  Frenchman  brought 
him  to  be  introduced  to  "Miss  Gray,  of  whom  he  had 
so  often  heard."  He  bowed,  with  a  broad  compli- 
ment, and  looked  at  Winifred  from. head  to  foot  as 
no  man  had  ever  looked  at  her  before. 

"  Dinner  is  served,"  announced  a  footman.  Macaire 
pulled  Winifred's  resisting  hand  under  his  arm,  and 
held  it  firmly  as  he  made  her  walk  by  his  side  across 
the  room.  The  girl  was  deadly  pale,  but  she  did 
not  cry  out,  as  Macaire' s  watchful  eyes  told  that 
he  half  expected  her  to  do. 

They  reached  the  marble  dining-room,  with  its 
purple  hangings,  its  pink  granite  pillars  and  blue- 
domed  ceiling.  Winifred's  place  was  by  Macaire's 
side,  and  she  sank  into  the  chair  which  a  footman 
offered  her.  She  must  drink  her  cup  to  the  dregs,  or 
Macaire  would  say  that  she  had  not  kept  to  the  bar- 
gain. Having  gone  through  so  much  she  must  endure 
to  the  end,  or  she  might  better  never  have  come  to 
this  horrible  house.  She  could  only  hope  that  she 
knew  the  worst  now.  And  perhaps,  she  told  herself, 
even  this  was  better  than  to  have  been  forced  by  her 
promise  to  dine  with  Macaire  alone. 

"Why  don't  you  eat?"  asked  Macaire  when  she 
had  let  several  courses  go  by  untasted. 

"I  do  not  wish  to,"  she  answered  in  a  low  tone, 
lost  in  the  babel  of  hilarious  voices. 

"Then  I  shall  not  consider  that  you  have  kept 
your  word.  To  dine  with  a  man  is  not  merely 
to  sit  at  his  table,  but  to  eat  his  food  and  drink 
his  wine.  If  you  can't  bring  yourself  to  do  that 
in  my  house  I  am  freed  from  my  half  of  our 
bargain." 


NERO'S  DINNER  PARTY  301 

Desperately  Winifred  made  a  feint  of  eating  some- 
thing from  her  plate,  not  even  knowing  what  she  ate. 

"That  is  better.  Now  drink  some  wine.  I  insist, 
or  you  know  the  consequences.  Surely  it  isn't  much 
to  ask.  I  don't  often  have  to  urge  my  guests  to  touch 
the  wine  that  comes  from  my  cellars." 

Champagne,  in  a  jeweled  Venetian  glass,  was 
sending  up  from  its  depths  to  the  golden  gleaming 
surface  a  stream  of  bubbles.  Winifred  raised  her 
glass  to  her  lips  and  drank.  As  she  did  so  her  tor- 
tured eyes  met  Macaire's,  and  the  glint  of  satisfaction 
that  darted  from  his,  though  he  would  have  hidden 
it,  startled  her.  She  set  down  the  glass  quickly.  What 
had  that  look  meant?  Was  he  pleased  that  she  had 
drunk  his  wine  only  because  of  his  triumph  in  compell- 
ing her  to  obedience,  or  was  there  a  more  subtle  reason  ? 

Her  heart  knocked  against  her  side,  and  her  hands 
grew  cold  as  her  gaze  traveled  questioningly  from 
one  hard  face  to  another.  Was  there  one  in  this 
strange  company  who  would  sympathize  or  help  her 
if  she  went  down  on  her  knees  to  implore  it  ?  She 
did  not  believe  that  there  was  one.  And  Baron  von 
Zellheim  had  not  come. 

Fearful  lest  she  had  made  a  serious  mistake,  she 
watched  her  own  feelings.  Had  she  experienced  any 
different  sensations,  she  asked  herself  anxiously,  since 
she  had  drunk  those  few  sips  of  wine  ? 

At  first  she  hoped  that  her  excited  fancy  alone 
conjured  up  the  imagined  difference,  but  slowly  she 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  she  felt  a  slight 
giddiness,  a  weakness  in  the  limbs  of  which  she  had 
not  been  conscious  before.  Her  eylids  drooped,  and 
she  lifted  them  with  an  effort.  There  was  a  faint 


302  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

prickling  in  the  palms  of  her  hands  and  the  soles  of 
her  feet.  The  beating  of  her  heart,  which  had  been 
like  the  wild  fluttering  of  a  bird  against  the  bars  of 
a  cage,  slowed  to  a  heavy,  measured  throbbing  at 
longer  intervals.  The  shrill  laughter  of  the  women 
at  the  table  sounded  metallic,  unreal  and  far  away. 
A  mist  rose  between  her  and  the  faces  to  which  a  few 
minutes  ago  she  had  turned  a  vainly  appealing  gaze. 

How  the  dinner  went  on  she  did  not  know,  for  she 
was  like  one  in  a  dream.  Macaire  had  talked  to 
her  and  forced  answers  at  first,  but  now  he  let  her 
alone,  well  pleased,  perhaps,  with  the  progress  of 
events.  Some  of  the  guests  who  appeared  to  know 
each  other  well  had  addressed  a  remark  to  her  now 
and  then,  but  when  she  scarcely  replied  they  turned 
their  attention  elsewhere. 

"I've  been  drugged,  I've  been  drugged,"  Wini- 
fred kept  saying  to  herself,  as  if  the  repetition  of 
the  startling  words  must  rouse  her  failing  energies 
to  some  supreme  effort.  But,  though  her  mind  strug- 
gled with  creeping  lethargy,  the  body  would  not  answer 
the  call  to  arms. 

As  the  champagne  went  round  the  laughter  grew 
louder,  the  women  bolder.  Strange  jests  were  made, 
such  jests  as  Winifred  had  never  been  forced  to  hear 
even  behind  the  scenes  at  the  Salisbury,  nor  did  she 
hear  them  now.  The  words  drummed  upon  her 
ears  without  conveying  a  meaning.  All  the  voices 
seemed  to  join  in  a  wild  babble,  inarticulate  as  the  voice 
of  a  river  fed  from  many  rushing  brooks. 

Winifred  was  going  to  sleep,  and  so  dulled  were 
all  her  faculties  that  she  no  longer  cared. 

Her  head,  with  its  crown  of  bright,  waving  hair  — 


NERO'S  DINNER  PARTY  303 

so  different  from  the  artificial  structure  of  her  neigh- 
bors' -  -  nodded  on  the  slender  throat,  like  a  lily 
shaken  on  its  stem  by  the  wind.  Her  lashes  fell. 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Macaire.  "See,  our  Miss 
Ingenue  is  missing  her  beauty  sleep!  She  would  have 
us  believe  that  she's  in  bed  every  night  at  ten." 

"You've  plied  her  with  too  much  champagne,  O 
generous  host!"  cried  one  of  the  women. 

"Perhaps,"  confessed  Macaire,  while  everybody 
laughed.  "  The  child  must  not  have  any  more  to-night. 
Next  time  you  meet  her  I  warrant  she'll  do  better. 
In  a  month  she'll  hold  her  own  with  any  of  you." 

"To  the  next  meeting!"  Glasses  were  lifted,  and 
much  champagne  was  drunk. 

"  Poor  little  dear,  she  doesn't  look  very  comfortable!" 
giggled  a  lady  in  many  diamonds  and  a  small  allowance 
of  bodice.  "  She  won't  be  able  to  sit  up  with  us  bigger 
children  for  dessert." 

"I'll  give  instructions  for  her  to  be  taken  away 
where  she  can  have  her  nap  out  in  peace,"  said  Macaire, 
his  eyes  viciously  bright.  He  nodded  to  a  footman, 
who  moved  forward  respectfully  to  take  his  master's 
order;  and  at  this  instant,  without  being  announced, 
Hope  Newcome  came  into  the  room. 

"Von  Zellheim!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  men. 

Winifred's  closing  eyes  opened  wide  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second.  They  were  no  longer  bright,  but  dull 
and  curiously  glassy.  "Help!"  she  whispered  rather 
than  spoke,  straining  to  make  her  voice  heard  as  one 
strives  to  scream  and  break  the  cold  spell  of  a  night- 
mare. Then  her  head  fell  forward  again,  and  she 
would  have  slipped  from  her  chair  to  the  floor  had 
not  Macaire  caught  her. 


304  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

It  was  the  movement,  not  the  scarcely  audible 
whisper,  which  drew  Hope  Newcome's  eyes  to  the 
drooping  figure  in  white;  and,  seeing  the  lovely, 
pallid  face  of  Winifred  Gray,  he  sprang  towards 
her,  his  eyes  blazing  incredulous  horror  at  her  pres- 
ence here. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    EYE    OF  THE    MOONSTONE 

'THIS  is  a  pleasant  surprise,  my  dear  von  Zell- 
heim,"  said  Macaire,  his  expression  somewhat  belying 
his  words.  "Your  pardon  for  one  moment  while  I 
see  to  Miss  Gray's  comfort,  and  a  place  shall  be 
made  for  you.  Our  young  friend's  head  is  not  as 
strong  as  it  might  be,  and  she  has  been  overcome  by 
a  little  more  champagne  than  she's  been  accustomed 
to  taking." 

For  an  instant  Hope  Newcome  had  lost  self-con- 
trol; but  in  the  short  interval  occupied  by  the  mil- 
lionaire's excuses  he  had  regained  it.  He  knew  Wini- 
fred Gray;  and  he  knew  Macaire  —  at  last!  Never 
in  his  life  of  vicissitudes,  perhaps,  had  he  received 
such  a  shock  as  the  sight  of  Winifred  Gray  at  Macaire's 
house,  dining  in  this  company,  had  given;  but,  though 
he  was  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  circumstances  which 
had  led  up  to  her  coming,  it  took  him  no  longer  than 
a  second  to  divine  that  she  was  the  victim  of  some  plot 
-  possibly  not  the  first  web  which  this  cunning  spider 
had  spun  for  her  undoing.  And  at  the  end  of  that  one 
second  he  had  made  up  his  mind  how  to  act. 

"Whatever  has  caused  Miss  Gray's  indisposition 
it  is  certainly  not  due  to  champagne,"  he  said  in  a 
loud,  cold  voice,  to  be  heard  by  everyone.  "I  know 
her  well  enough  to  vouch  for  that,  since  she  is  to  be 


3o6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

my  wife.  And  as  she  is  to  be  my  wife,  it  is  my  place 
to  take  care  of  her.  I  will  relieve  you  of  the  trouble, 
Mr.  Macaire." 

As  he  spoke,  he  stepped  forward  as  if  to  remove 
her  from  Macaire's  arms. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  millionaire  had 
touched  Winifred  Gray  more  familiarly  than  to  take 
her  hand.  The  fragrance  of  her  yellow-brown  hair 
was  intoxicatingly  sweet  in  his  nostrils;  he  had  been 
half  drunk  with  the  joy  of  success  at  last;  and  with 
an  oath  he  drew  back  from  the  younger  man  who 
had  just  announced  himself  his  rival.  There  was  no 
reason  for  holding  his  fierce  temper  in,  so  far  as  he 
knew,  and  he  loosed  it  savagely. 

"How  dare  you?"  he  demanded.  "She's  noth- 
ing to  you,  you  liar.  She's  mine,  or  she  wouldn't  be 
here  to-night." 

Newcome  did  not  answer,  but,  grasping  Macaire's 
wrist  with  one  of  his  brown,  strong  hands,  he  twisted 
it  back  so  that  the  joint  cracked  in  its  socket,  and  the 
millionaire  gave  a  shrill,  irrepressible  squeal  of  pain. 

Quietly  Newcome  took  Winifred  from  him,  hold- 
ing her  against  his  shoulder,  and  defying  Macaire 
with  the  cold  menace  of  his  dark  eyes. 

Always  hideous,  the  red,  glazed  face  of  Nero  the 
Second  was  appalling  in  his  rage.  At  sight  of  it  the 
women  sprang  up  from  the  table,  pale  under  their 
paint.  Glasses  were  overturned,  and  eyes  that  had 
gazed  on  many  a  strange  scene  opened  wide  to  behold 
something  of  more  than  common  interest. 

"You  dog;  you  common  cur  that  I  took  from  the 
gutter!"  shrieked  Macaire.  "You  puppet  that  I 
hired  with  my  money  to  dance  at  my  bidding.  You 


THE  EYE  OF  THE  MOONSTONE      307 

thought  you  might  presume  on  your  brute  strength 
to  come  here  and  insult  me  in  my  own  house,  I  suppose, 
since  our  contract  wasn't  out  yet.  But  it's  got  hardly 
a  month  more  to  run 

"We'll  call  it  cancelled  now,"  said  Hope  New- 
come.  "You  and  I  will  have  no  more  contracts 
in  future." 

"Everyone  here  shall  know  who  you  are,"  Macaire 
went  on  furiously.  "All  the  world  that  I've  been 
laughing  at  shall  know  to-morrow,  and  where  will 
you  be  then  ?  Why,  kicked  back  to  your  kennel 
by  the  women  who've  made  you  their  pet." 

"My  kennel's  rather  a  nice  one,"  said  Newcome. 
"Schloss  Zellheim,  on  the  Rhine.  It  is  no  longer  a 
ruin.  I  have  had  it  restored  in  these  last  few  months. 
I  hope  to  take  Miss  Gray  there;  only  she  will  then 
be  the  Baroness  von  Zellheim,  and  any  man  who  has 
told  lies  about  her  will  have  been  horsewhipped  into 
publicly  apologizing." 

"  Schloss  Zellheim ! "  sneered  Macaire.  "  The  money 
you've  saved  out  of  what  I  flung  to  you  wouldn't 
have  bought  it." 

"The  ruined  castle  has  been  the  property  of  my 
family  for  years,  though  they  were  absentees,  and 
too  poor  to  restore  it.  That  has  been  my  privilege." 

"Pshaw!"  laughed  Macaire  hatefully.  "These 
friends  will  know  how  much  to  believe  of  that,  and 
what  to  tell  in  their  clubs  to-morrow,  when  I  say 
that  you've  no  more  right  to  the  name  of  von  Zellheim 
than  I  have.  I  gave  you  the  name,  to  make  sport 
for  myself,  and  sport  I've  had,  but  there's  better 
to  come.  For  six  months  your  pay  for  breaking 
Joey  Nash  and  being  at  my  beck  and  call  was  to 


3c8  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

continue  —  good  pay,  a  thousand  pounds  a  month,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  sum  you  got  down,  to  start  with  — 

"It's  trebled  now,"  cut  in  Newcome  coolly.  "You 
gave  me  such  excellent  advice  as  to  speculations.  I 
took  it,  and  succeeded  beyond  my  best  hopes.  That's 
the  one  thing  for  which  I  have  to  thank  you.'' 

"There  speaks  your  dog's  ingratitude.  But  many 
a  servant's  got  rich  in  his  master's  service;  and  you're 
my  servant  —  or  you're  bound  by  your  own  word 
to  be  —  at  the  end  of  the  six  months,  and  everybody 
shall  know  it;  everybody  shall  hear  the  great  joke 
now  and  laugh  with  me.  You  bound  yourself  in 
your  gold-greed,  to  do  anything  I  exacted  of  you  when 
the  six  months  should  be  up.  What  I  meant  to  make 
of  you  was  a  groom  in  my  stables,  a  place  you're  well 
fitted  for,  and  you  can't  refuse  it  without  breaking 
your  pledge,  the  same  as  obtaining  eight  thousand 
pounds  on  false  pretenses.  How  will  Miss  Gray 
fancy  being  the  wife  of  my  groom  ?  We  must  ask  her 
when  she  wakes  up  from  her  fainting  fit." 

"Let  me  first  ask  you  a  question,"  said  Newcome. 
"Whose  property  is  this?" 

He  supported  Winifred's  slender,  white-clad  body 
with  his  left  arm,  and  pressed  it  close  against  his 
heart.  With  his  right  hand  he  held  up  a  moonstone 
cut  in  the  shape  of  a  sphinx's  head.  As  he  raised  it 
aloft  the  light  touched  the  stone,  and  struck  out  a 
strange  blue  gleam,  like  an  eye  that  peered  through 
a  cloud,  searching,  searching  for  something  that 
sooner  or  later  it  would  find. 

"That  is  mine!"  cried  Macaire,  and  sprang  toward 
it.  But  Newcome  lifted  the  stone  beyond  his  reach. 

"You   are  sure  it  is  yours?"  he  asked  again. 


THE  EYE  OF  THE  MOONSTONE      309 

"I've  had  it  for  years,  till  it  was  stolen  from  me. 
Unless  you  want  to  be  called  'thief  as  well  as  dog 
and  liar  you  will  hand  it  back." 

"You  have  had  it  for  years?'*  Newcome  echoed. 
"I  thought  so.  It  was  you  who  stole  it  from  Harold 
Norman." 

For  once  in  his  life  Lionel  Macaire  visibly  quailed. 
His  hideous  face  seemed  literally  to  wither,  his  body 
to  shrink;  but  in  a  moment  he  was  himself  again,  all 
traces  of  emotion  gone,  save  for  a  quivering  of  the 
nostrils,  a  slight  twitching  of  the  marred  eyelids. 

"I  don't  know  the  name,"  he  said. 

Hope  Newcome  turned  a  sudden  blaze  of  hatred 
and  contempt  upon  him.  "You  know  it  as  well  as 
that  of  Leland  Marmion,  the  California  murderer!" 
he  flung  at  the  millionaire. 

Speechless,  Macaire  stared  at  him,  with  mouth 
falling  open,  jaw  dropped  down.  Then,  his  voice 
coming  back,  he  gasped:  "You  devil!" 

"I  am  Harold  Norman's  son,"  answered  the  man 
who  had  called  himself  Hope  Newcome.  "His  son, 
and  the  son  of  *F.  E.  Z/  I  am  Harold  Norman's 
namesake,  and  I  have  lived  for  this  night,  lived  to 
be  his  avenger." 

"Good  God!"  he  heard  Macaire  mutter,  beneath 
his  panting  breath.  Even  for  that  iron  self-control 
the  stubborn  courage  that  could  inflict  horrible  self- 
mutilation,  for  bare  life's  sake  and  safety's  sake,  was 
broken.  But  again  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about  ?" 
Macaire  sneered,  his  voice  shaking,  yet  coming  back 
to  steadiness.  "I  only  know  that  you  seem  to  be 
threatening.  Take  care,  or  I  will  have  you  arrested." 


3io  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

Hope  Newcome  —  or  Harold  Xorman  —  laughed. 
"Try  it,"  he  said.  "You  will  never  have  so  good  a 
chance.  The  police  are  outside  now,  for  they  have 
seen  certain  letters  found  long  ago,  but  not  too  long 
for  justice,  in  the  pocket  of  a  dead  man  —  one  of 
those  whom  you,  Leland  Marmion,  murdered/' 

As  the  last  word  leaped  like  a  sword  from  the 
accuser's  lips,  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  women 
at  the  table  cried  out  in  terror,  and  in  the  same  instant 
utter  darkness  fell.  The  brilliant  lights  that  had  made 
vivid  the  blue  and  gold  and  purple  and  marble-white, 
vanished  like  a  burst  bubble,  and  the  room  was  black  as 
a  night  of  plague.  The  screams  and  the  sudden  darkness 
came  together.  The  quickest  eye  and  ear  could  not 
have  sworn  with  certainty  which  was  first. 

Someone  had  turned  off  the  electric  lights  —  how, 
nobody  knew.  There  was  a  soft  fluttering  and  rust- 
ling of  women's  dresses,  hysterical  exclamations,  and 
the  crash  of  breaking  dishes  and  falling  chairs  as 
people  pushed  away  from  the  table,  blinded  and  con- 
fused by  the  black  darkness. 

Only  Hope  Newcome  did  not  move.  Even  if  he 
lost  his  revenge,  he  would  not  put  Winifred  away  to 
recover  the  chance  slipping  from  him.  She  was  wak- 
ing from  her  stupor,  and  clung  to  him,  murmuring 
the  name  by  which  she  had  known  him.  And,  stoop- 
ing closer,  he  thought  he  heard  her  whisper: 

"Partner,  partner,  if  you  could  forgr- 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE    MILLS    OF   THE    GODS 

NEVER  for  one  moment  had  Lionel  Macaire  been 
unprepared  for  the  possibility  of  the  blow  which  had 
fallen  to-night. 

He  had  not  expected  it;  he  had  told  himself  a  thou- 
sand times  that  it  would  never  fall  upon  him — that 
it  could  not  fall.  Still,  he  loved  life,  and  he  had 
worked  hard  to  make  it  worth  living.  He  had  shed 
blood  to  make  it  worth  living,  and  he  did  not  mean 
that  Nemesis  should  strike  him  from  behind. 

The  millionaire  had  not  a  house,  nor  a  room  in 
one  of  the  houses,  where  all  electric  lights  could  not 
be  turned  off  by  means  of  a  single  button.  His  steam 
yacht,  waiting  his  orders  in  harbor,  was  always  ready 
to  start  at  ten  minutes'  notice.  Once  he  would  have 
had  to  depend  upon  horses  for  a  dash  to  the  sea, 
but  now  he  had  the  means  by  which  he  could  out- 
distance the  fastest  horse  on  earth. 

In  his  stables  stood  a  racing  Panhard  auto-car  of 
fifty  horse-power,  though  its  seating  capacity  was  but 
for  two  persons.  Like  the  yacht,  it  was  kept  ready 
by  its  engineer  for  an  instant  start,  filled  with  petrol 
and  water,  its  machinery  oiled. 

To-night  as  he  switched  off  the  lights  from  the 
dining-room,  he  flung  himself  at  a  swinging  door 
behind  the  purple  drapery  —  a  door  by  which  the  ser- 

3" 


3i2  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

vants  entered  through  a  passage  leading  to  die  huge 
kitchens.  The  door  moved  noiselessly,  and  Macaire's 
artificial  foot  limped  over  the  thick  felt,  with  which 
the  floor  was  covered,  faster  than  it  had  ever  done 
before. 

Half-way  down  the  passage  was  a  door  which 
opened  near  the  stables.  A  moment,  and  Macaire 
was  in  die  room  where  the  motor-car  was  kept,  for 
the  key  was  on  his  chain,  and  only  the  engineer,  absent 
now,  had  a  duplicate. 

Macaire  sprang  to  the  car  and  lit  the  acetylene 
lamps,  his  heart  pounding  in  his  ears,  for  the  great 
crisis  had  come,  and  he  was  working  for  life  or 
death. 

True,  Hope  Newcome  might  have  lied;  he  might 
suspect,  yet  not  have  the  proofs  he  hinted  at.  But 
it  would  not  do- to  risk  his  having  lied.  If  Macaire 
could  reach  Gravesend,  where  the  Diavola  lay  (he 
hoped  that  few  knew  she  was  there),  before  the  police 
of  London  had  warned  the  police  of  Gravesend  by 
telegraph,  there  was  a  chance  for  him  still.  He  would 
trust  the  yacht  to  show  her  heels  to  anything  afloat. 
The  seas  were  wide.  There  were  countries  where 
he  could  hide  himself;  and  there  was  money  on  board 
the  Diavola  —  money  and  thousands  of  pounds* 
worth  of  diamonds,  which  he  kept  there  in  a  safe 
in  case  of  such  necessity  as  had  arisen  to-night. 
He  would  be  comparatively  poor,  yet  he  would 
want  for  nothing,  and  he  would  at  least  have  defied 
the  hangman. 

In  two  minutes  the  car  was  ready  to  start,  the 
stable  doors  flung  open.  By  this  time  those  whom 
he  had  left  groping  in  the  dark  would  have  light 


THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  313 

again.     The   police  would   be  in,  if  the   dead   man's 
son  had  told  the  truth  —  but  they  were  not  here  yet. 

He  ran  limping  from  the  open  doors  back  to  the 
car  and  climbed  on  board.  Then,  with  a  rush  and 
throbbing  of  its  machinery,  the  Panhard  tore  into 
the  street. 

Let  them  come  now  if  they  would.  What  did  he 
care  ?  Who  could  catch  him  now  ?  What  was  there 
fast  enough  to  follow  even  so  far  away  as  to  guess 
at  his  destination  ? 

Out  in  the  street  he  put  on  the  fastest  speed,  reck- 
ing nothing  of  the  law,  for  none  could  stop  him. 

With  his  two  acetylene  lamps  like  great  white 
dragon-eyes  blazing  in  the  night,  the  Panhard  tore 
through  the  streets  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles  an  hour. 
People  flung  themselves  wildly  out  of  the  way,  shriek- 
ing for  the  police,  shouting  that  here  was  a  madman 
on  a  motor-car;  cabmen  lashed  their  snorting  horses 
up  side  streets  to  avoid  destruction,  or  drove  in 
desperation  on  to  the  pavement,  the  wheels  of 
their  vehicles  here  and  there  smashing  a  window, 
adding  the  keen,  high  treble  of  crashing  glass  to  the 
uproar. 

Policemen  yelled  to  the  hatless  man  bent  forward 
over  the  steering-wheel,  bidding  him  stop  on  pain  of 
desperate  penalties,  but  Macaire  only  laughed.  Rain 
had  begun  to  fall,  and  the  wind,  and  the  water,  spray- 
ing against  his  hot  face  cooled  his  brain,  giving  him 
a  sense  of  devilish  power  and  exhilaration.  He  felt 
like  juggernaut,  and  longed  for  victims  for  the 
wheels  of  his  rushing  car,  which  flew  faster  than 
the  flying  minutes,  bearing  him  out  of  danger  to 
a  new  life. 


3i4  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

He  did  not  think  of  all  that  he  had  left  behind, 
all  that  he  must  sacrifice,  for  that  way  madness  lay. 
Yet  Winifred's  sweet  girlish  face  would  rise  before 
him.  He  would  not  have  had  this  thing  happen 
until  he  had  crushed  the  butterfly  under  his  heel,  and 
broken  its  wings  so  that  it  must  lie  forever  in  the 
dust.  And  Hope  Newcome,  the  son  of  the  man  he 
had  done  to  death;  he  would  fain  have  sent  him  after 
his  father. 

"To  think  that  she  should  have  been  Harold  Nor- 
man's wife,  and  I  never  guessed  it!  Fool — fool!" 
he  railed  madly  against  himself. 

He  had  passed  the  suburbs  now  at  last.  London 
and  London's  lights  would  soon  be  left  behind.  He 
would  do  the  trick.  The  Panhard  and  his  Dia^ola 
would  save  him  yet. 

Suddenly  it  was  as  if  a  figure  rose  out  of  the  earth 
before  him,  flitting  in  front  of  the  car,  as  it  rushed 
along  a  white  ribbon  of  winding  road.  It  was  radiant 
with  a  strange  pale  radiance,  and  out  of  a  faint  golden 
mist  gleamed  a  face  —  the  face  of  "  F.  E.  Z." 

"I'm  mad!"  he  cried.  "I'm  mad.  It's  not  there 
—  it's  a  delusion." 

Yet  the  eyes  looked  at  him  from  the  pale,  lovely 
face  that  he  had  seen  in  countless  dreams,  that  he 
had  fancied  he  saw  duplicated  in  Winifred  Gray's, 
and  he  could  not  run  it  down. 

In  another  instant  the  face  would  have  been  under 
his  wheels,  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  of  beauty. 
With  a  jerk  of  the  steering-wheel  he  swerved  the  car 
to  the  right.  The  movement  was  too  sudden  for  the 
tremendous  speed  at  which  the  car  was  going,  and, 
with  a  crash,  the  Panhard  leapt  from  the  road  into 


THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  315 

the  ditch  at  the  side,  turning  over  as  it  fell.  Macaire 
was  flung  off,  and  with  a  grinding,  rending  pain  in 
his  leg,  fell  into  unconsciousness. 

Then  came  dreams,  a  changing  kaleidoscope  of 
dreams,  with  flashing  lights  and  the  booming  of  can- 
non. He  was  dragged  back  by  sheer  physical  agony 
to  consciousness  again. 

At  first  he  hoped,  well-nigh  prayed,  that  this  wak- 
ing was  the  false  waking  of  a  dream.  He  dreamed 
—  or  was  it  true  ?  —  that  the  car  had  fallen  on  him, 
pinning  him  underneath,  writhing  and  helpless,  in  an 
agony  of  pain.  He  dreamed  —  or  was  it  real  ?  —  that 
the  whole  sky  was  bright  with  the  weird,  pale  light 
from  a  pillar  of  flame  that  shot  far  up  into  the  purple 
night,  up,  straight  up,  higher  than  the  tree-tops. 

The  burners  had  ignited  the  petrol  with  the  falling 
of  the  car,  and  the  whole  fabric  was  on  fire.  He  was 
part  of  the  fire.  Oh,  the  pain,  the  horror!  Yes,  it 
was  true,  and  he  must  die  here,  like  a  rat  in  a  trap. 

In  his  agony  faces  crowded  round  him,  faces  that 
he  had  struck  life  out  of  long,  long  ago.  For  what 
they  had  suffered,  for  what  he  had  made  them  suffer, 
was  he  paying  now  ? 

Heavens,  how  long  it  lasted!  How  long  it  took 
a  man  to  die.  Perhaps  even  now  it  was  a  dream. 
It  was  too  ghastly  to  be  true. 


Yet  the  papers  said  next  day  that  it  had  been  true; 
and  the  world  that  had  known  Macaire  was  shocked. 
No  one  grieved  for  the  man  who  was  gone.  But  a 
girl,  hiding  her  face  against  her  lover's  arm,  shud- 


3i6  THE  SILENT  BATTLE 

dered,  sobbing  that  in  spite  of  all  she  would  have 
saved  him  from  so  terrible  an  end  if  she  had  had  the 
power. 

"The  mills  of  the  gods,  my  darling,"  answered 
the  man  who  loved  her,  and  would  never  let  her  go 
far  from  him  again,  "are  slow  in  their  grinding,  but 
they  grind  exceeding  small/* 


THE    END 


A     000132843     4 


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